


Folsom Prison Pastel

by Soupernabturel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Castiel Wants to Read and Talk about Dumbledor's Failings as a Mentor, Dean Hordes Prison Lit and Tries to Regain Literature's Honour, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, Family Loyalty, Homophobic Language, Language Barrier, M/M, Moral Ambiguity, Non-Con/Rape Outside of Castiel/Dean Winchester, Openly Bisexual Dean, Panty Kink, Possessive Castiel, Protective Dean, Russian Castiel, Russian Mafia, Vulgar Language, Wooing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-23
Updated: 2016-02-23
Packaged: 2018-05-19 07:45:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 34,730
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5959297
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soupernabturel/pseuds/Soupernabturel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Three years in on his fifty-year sentence; Dean Winchester is in the cafeteria, minding his own, when out of the blue he smells it..</p><p>  <i>Pie.</i></p><p> </p><p>  <b> be subscribed for updates because sometimes I get into a mood or get prompted and I add to this </b></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Baby Blue

**Author's Note:**

> As always unbeated. unedited. unread
> 
> [My Tumblr](soupernabturel.tumblr.com)
> 
>  **Also** I'm attempting to write in the present tense (I very rarely do this; I'm a third pov past tense kinda gal), and with a sparser form of writing. So sorry if it's as awkward as banana's at a pool party.

 “Where’d you get the pie?”

 

The dark-haired man sitting at the table before Dean, looks up from his pie, his _whole_ pie and squints. Huh... light coloured, eyes dark hair, rugged features, all in all Dean considers it a pretty nice combination, but the orange prison jumpsuit isn’t exactly flattering for the man's ivory tanned skin and colouring, that and he’s scruffy faced and squinting in a way Dean guesses means he’s confused?

 

“The pie, man?” Dean repeats, gesturing to the freshly baked _oh-god-was-it-possible-to-get-hard-over-pastry_ pie that was just sitting there, being eaten by someone who was not Dean Winchester. “The hell you get that man what is it?”

 

Dean leans forward then, probably more than he should, and takes a big, obnoxious whiff.

 

Oh god.

 

It’s _pecan_.

 

“It was a gift,” says the man in heavily accented english, and Dean’s scenting the pie far too greedily to initially give the voice the reaction it deserves.

 

But when he realises what the man 'clumsily' said he shoots upright. “A _gift?”_

 

“A welcome,” says the man. “I enjoy American cuisine. I asked the staff to provide one for me”

 

Dean stares a little flabbergast. “You asked the kitchen-” it feels as though there’s a full minute in which Dean stares down at the man and the man stares back. And then just as quickly Dean gets a little pissed. Where does this guy get off requesting pie in fucking jail and actually fucking getting it? “Well shit man,” Dean says through tight teeth, “If I knew they were taking orders I might have ordered myself a fucking steak never mind the goddamned pecan-”

 

The man frowns at his tone. “The staff does not take orders. Not for you.”

 

Jeez, what an _ass_. “Well- fuck you right back, asshole, how the hell’d you-”

 

“Dean!”

 

  
Dean turns and there’s Benny Laffiette coming towards him, a big burly bear of a man, more teddy than grizzly though, at least to the likes of Dean. “Hey Benny, _hey!_ ” Dean’s about to lament about the utter _injustice_ before him, but before he can, Benny’s hand is on his arm and he is pulling, actually _pulling_ _Dean_ _away_. “Shit man. Whattya-”

 

Benny hisses something that is a lot like ‘shut up, keep walking’ before he shoves Dean ahead of him, practically dragging him back to their table.

 

“What the hell are you doing?” he asks.

 

Dean tries to look over his shoulder, catches a glimpse of the guy watching them, still squinting. He starts shrugging his shoulders to get the giants bear-claws off him and squawks.

 

“Dude has _pie_ Benny, get off me, I think I’m about to-“

 

“Sit down if you know what you’re good for,” says Benny, pushing Dean into his seat, smacking him down beside Shurley.

 

“ _Umpf.”_ Dean grunts and whirls on his friend. “Jesus Ben what-”

 

“Dude,” says Ash leaning across the table, “That’s _Castiel_ _Reznikov_ _.”_

 

_Reznikov._

 

“Yep, it’s hitting him now.” Ash smirks sitting back.

 

Shaking his head, Benny collapses into his own seat, looking worn if not a little amused.

 

_Reznikov. Reznikov._ Dean knows that name, It’s foreign, obviously, Czechoslovakian, Russian?

 

All eyes on the table are on him, Benny, Ash, Shurley, Garth and the greenie-kid Kevin.

 

Ash runs a hand down through his mullet, he nudges Shurley beside him, drawling; “A slow trickle and-”

 

“Fuck,” says Dean, because fuck: _Reznikov._

 

Ash snaps his fingers. “Gotcha.” Shurley offers a wry smile and Benny rolls his eyes.

 

Dean repressed the urge to look back behind him, to the table with the man; Castiel-freaking- _Reznikov,_ and instead swallows deeply. “Reznikov, as in…?”

 

Garth nods. “The new transfer, Russian Mafia Castiel Reznikov? You betcha.”

 

“Fuck.” Dean puts his head in his hands and lets out a long breath. “I’m a dead man.”

 

“It was nice bunking with ya Dean.” Benny comments offhandedly.

 

The table peels in, quite frankly, insulting laughter.

 

Castiel Reznikov, as far as Dean knows (and he’s grown to know a lot about the American criminal element in his last three years of incarceration) is only one of the most renowned members of the overall _Bratva,_ at least one of the  most well known _Avtoritet_ in the US. And Dean called him an asshole- he’d been on the track to try and _intimidate_ the guy out of his goddamned pie.

 

Dean groans long and loud and sets his forehead down on the table with a particularly hard slam. “Fuck.”

 

“Fuck indeed,” Benny agrees.

 

  
Dean groans into the table top and starts to count his days.

 

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

 

Waking up the next morning, initially, Dean is just surprised to actually be _waking_.

 

Next, he is more than happy that his dick is still attached. Considering the shit Ash had been giving him the day earlier, about how Reznikov was going to detach his cock in the night and feed it to him, it’s no wonder Dean’s dreams had been filled with rampant dismemberment, rouge cocks, and oddly enough the Enterprise Brig with Castiel in Ensign Chekov’s uniform asking Dean for his ‘Course heading.’

 

But still, no crazy Russian sneaking into his (locked) cell in the night to murder Dean in his sleep or cut off his ding-dong.

 

Today is a good day.

 

“Oh, thank god.” Dean breathes out loud, giving himself a good-morning grope. A little adjustment here, a little adjustment there- and oh that doesn’t feel too bad honestly. Dean strokes himself a little, absently fingering the tighter skin of his foreskin, dipping his pinkie in to smooth it out over his cockhead, flick it back and rub it along his slit.

 

  
“Stop it,” murmurs Benny from the bottom bunk. "I know what you’re doing brother and I ain’t putting up with that shit this early in the goddamned morning."

 

Dean huffs but his hand does slide out of his pants (what can he say, he’s a sucker for a man with a deep voice). He considers throwing his pillow down at his cellmate, then he considers throwing down his jizzed on pillow down at his cellmate and the thought makes him giggle a little.

 

Instead, he presses his smile into said pillow and decides to give his, thankfully _attached_ penis a proper good morning when Benny heads out to the showers.

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

Really, Dean knows he’s not a particularly smart cookie. He’s made his mistakes; hell- he’s been in jail for going on four years now and he’s only twenty-nine, with still at least a minimum of another fourty five to go.

 

So it really doesn’t strike Dean well until after that he’s being a fucking idiot, again approaching Reznikov in the cafeteria. _Approaching in_ _public_ he says to himself and knows better, _there’s safety in numbers._

As though Castiel wouldn’t have any qualms about stabbing a man in a crowd in the middle of the afternoon.

 

The man in question sits alone at his table, and honestly Dean is pretty close to crapping his pants. There’s no shame in being downright terrified of the Russian, Dean’s stupid but he’s not an idiot.

 

Or maybe he kinda is.

 

Castiel must know Dean’s headed towards him well before Dean is actually there as nobody else is sitting around him for a good ten feet. So it is just this _space_ and Dean walking through it, his tray being held like a protective shield to his chest, his legs bowed with every step.

 

Castiel doesn’t bother looking up when Dean stops right beside his table. He clears his throat and Castiel stares resolutely down at his meal.

 

“Hey uh-Res- Reznikov?”

 

The Russian looks up. He’s wearing lazy stubble like he couldn’t be bothered to shave, his blue eyes are lidded and his lips pursed.

 

“Castiel.” He says, voice low and rough, all unpolished edges. “To you, my name is Castiel.”

 

“Right… Cas-t-iel.” Dean falters for a moment because, hell he’s on first name basis with a mobster apparently and has no clue how _that_ happened. “Listen, about the other day…”

 

Castiel’s eyes narrow. “You wanted my dessert.”

 

“Pie isn’t dessert man it’s I, anyhow…I mean…” shit. Dean glances away, realising they have an audience. Almost the whole damn cafeteria. He presses his lips together, then works onto his face his most charming smile. “Yeah uh, just wanted to say that was- pretty rude of me alright, back then and kinda just now so you know, I’m sorry maybe we can forget this whole thing happened- infact you can just go right ahead and forget entirely that I exist-”

 

“You are afraid of me,” comments Castiel, and he moves his fork out of his gruel and sets it down on the table.

 

Dean grows immediately still. “I’m not afraid of you.” He rebuts.

 

Castiel squints at him. It’s a strange sort of expression, something impatient. His eyebrows pull together and down solemnly, his pink mouth is a moue, making the cleft in his chin far more noticeable to Dean, who catches and looks down at the table.

 

Forks, even the plastic ones are freaking death traps in here.

 

Dean wonders how he got it in.

 

It is with that stern expression that Castiel rises. Dean has to take a step back because when Castiel gets to his feet from the table, all of a sudden the space that there was between them is non-existent and Castiel is _right there_.

 

“If you know who I am _mal'chik_ , then you should be afraid.” Castiel says deadly cool. And Dean feels a god damned _shiver_ , when Castiel speaks with that voice and looks at him as though he’s the ant under the bullies microscope- as though Dean is a different species. He tilts his chin up, and despite being goddamn shorter, manages to appear like a giant before Dean.  

 

He doesn’t bother saying anything else, or picking up his tray, he just pushes past Dean and heads out unstopped by the overseeing guards into the empty hallways of the prison beyond.

 

Nobody tries to stop him, but hell everyone is looking.

 

Dean’s hand slips downward, and protectively covers his crotch.

 

He is so screwed.

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

The Russian’s are a cruel people.

 

Dean has proof of it, seriously he does. He thought they were all about the maiming and the gunning down, probably since they’re in prison the gun would be replaced with a shiv, but Dean wouldn’t put it past Castiel to somehow smuggle one in. With all the perks Cas’ been getting and all his palm-greasing, Dean should have guessed he was fucking mafia from the stench of his privilege alone. The guy reeks ‘better-than-you’ and the less and less Dean sees of him (because it reminds him, he tells himself, of Castiel’s bending of the rules) the more and more it pisses him off. And the more and more times goes by with not one threat, without a single glance in his direction when they do happened to cross paths, the more on edge Dean gets.

 

But that’s just the thing because _Castiel_ hasn’t done anything, not a single thing. He’s barely breathed in Dean’s vicinity, honestly it’s almost as though he’s actively avoiding Dean.

 

The man’s fucking playing with him, like a cat with a moth in its paws.

 

Which is why Dean is somewhat surprised to cross paths with the man in the showers one morning.

 

It takes Dean all but a second to realise Reznikov’s presence, the few of the younger, pettier criminals fall silent, a significant portion of the bathroom’s attendants. The other, particularly rougher men, or the few who are just simply showering, only pause for a moment before returning to business.

 

Dean would normally be one such man, but instead he stares as Castiel drops his towel entering the stall four partitions down from him. Dean catches a glimpse of tanned naked flesh and wiry hair before averting his eyes to the tile in front. Cas is taller without the prison getup, leanly muscled. Dean tells himself that nothing about the way he’s side eyeing Cas from across the bathroom is sexual; not in the least. It’s protective, it’s survival. His gaze tracks over Castiel and picks up each of this vulnerabilities, cataloguing pressure points, evidence of weakness. Castiel is like a fucken pillar though, molded and shaped by tools if the scars across his spine and across the backs of his calves are anything to go by. His cheeks heat under the spray and he ignores the hot pulse in his gut for scrubbing furious hands over his face, dragging soap and suds up into his hair. 

 

Dude's been through the trenches and that’s putting the observation lightly.

 

The showers in Folsom State are actually not bad compared to the greater scheme of life, death and the inevitable ether. For instance; they have partitioning walls, which Dean likes to call the half walls as really they cover about half of the body of a regular guy, making either a person's back or front stick out depending on which way they’re facing. It doesn’t help too much with the prying eyes or the probing cocks, but it’s better than nothing. What matters most is that they’re clean and they’re roomy, which Dean supposes is the best he can ask for considering he’ll be here pretty much for the rest of his life.

 

With his last three or so years in the joint Dean’s taken to  ‘lets-get-to-it’ method of cleanliness. It’s when he’s turning off his water and toweling off that Dean hears it.

 

“Mmm, sure wouldn’t mind a taste of that little bitch.”

 

Alastair. Dean’s muscles tense on reflex, even if the meth-addict isn’t talking to him.

 

A couple of voices laugh.

 

Dean glances past his partition to the CO by the door and sees that he’s gone.

 

Fucken cheap ass security, it’s a wonder half the population hasn’t already been shived.

 

It’s Tran they’re jeering at, one of the newer transfers. The kid looks more like he should be in juvenile detention than slumming it here with the hard hitters, which paints first of all, a huge fucking target on his back. Boys a fucking twink all fair skinned and shaggy-haired.

 

Second of all, it makes Dean feel somewhat responsible for him. Damn his fucking _sensitivity_  in the plight of the pretty-boys-in-jail.

 

“What say you spread your legs a little more for me precious?” Alastair slurs, which with his nasally voice and wheeze makes him sound like a dying leaf-blower. “Give us all a good look at ya.”

 

Tran is about three seconds away from shitting a brick, his back against the tiles, shower water cascading down his front where he's attempting to cover as much as himself as he can with his hands and the shower-half wall. But Alastair's block is directly opposite to him, front facing, the kid doesn't stand a chance of not being ogled. Though Alastair hasn’t made any advances, he’s stepped out of his shower with his towel flung over one bony shoulder, eyes intent on the kid, his next meal. He’d looked at Dean that way once in his first weeks in and once had all it had taken for the elder man to rock up to Dean while his back was turned and grind his dirty, old cock against the small of Dean's back.

 

Alastair had been given three fractured ribs and a broken nose for his trouble.

 

After one or two more incidents going a similar way it was generally accepted that Dean Winchester was _that_ _sort_ of pretty-boy and more trouble than he was worth. Standing just over six feet tall, he was not a man to be fucked with. 

 

And so that leaves guys like Tran to act as the new flesh to play with.

 

Towel tied around his hips, water still dotting his eyelashes, Dean steps out from his stall and crosses the room to Kevin Tran, who flinches like a dog being hit right up until Dean opens his mouth.

  

“Fuck off Alastair.' he says, and though Kevin doesn't relax he no longer looks like he's going to die either. "Thought your chode would be chafed from all the rubbing out you’ve been doing over in solitary.” Dean looks at Alastair when he speaks to him, stares the other man right in the face. It's not a sign of respect or even defiance, no, it’s more just to spare himself from having to look down at Alastair's gross, flaccid cock for any longer than the minimum amount of time possible. 

 

“Been thinking about me have you?” Alastair purrs.

 

Dean sets his face in a hard expression.

 

“You know Winchester you got a real pretty mouth? Shame it has all that filth coming out of it.” Alastair crosses his arms over his chest and casts Kevin another lewd grin. “I almost wouldn’t mind fucking it. After this one of course.”

 

A couple of inmates snigger. 

 

Dean's movement is imperceptible but it can't be mistaken. He shifts his chest, blocking off Kevin from Alastair's beady stare. He feels a muscle in his jaw twitch, feels the joint of it rolling, and the urge to just reach out and hit the creep is growing- particularly with the guards absence.

 

“You’re welcome to try asshole, but I’ve gotta tell ya, I’m allergic to white trash, Like that little prick you’ve got there.” Dean allows for a shark-like smirk to cross over his face as he pointedly slides his eyes down Alastair's body. He’s been told such a smirk unnerving (on such pretty features), and for his effort is rewarded with Alastair's lips tightening, the subtle shifting on his stance.

 

Dean shrugs as though what he's seeing isn't much of a big deal (and honestly It's not). “I break out in hives and everything,' he says, 'it’s really kinda gross.”

 

Alastair snarls. “Think you’re smart don’t cha?”

 

“I think I’m adorable,” Dean says and takes two deliberate steps into Alastair's space, as close as he can get without changing this into an entirely different ballgame and leaving the new kid open at the sides. The sudden closeness seems to have the desired effect as the wiry Alastair takes a step back into his stall, his expression shifting from furious to furiously frustrated in the measure of a breath.

 

Dean casts his voice low under the pounding of twenty showers, so only the two of them and those actively listening in can hear them. “I may be a pretty face Alastair, but I’ve got a rep of taking dogs like you down.” He winks at the man and casts him his most charming grin. “Don’t fuck with me.”

 

There's a certain kind of joy Dean feels when Alastair concedes, flicking his towel around his waist with a 'fuck this' and departing from the bathroom. A few of his cronies follow and in their leaving the bathroom is restored to a rare kind of equilibrium that you wouldn't find anywhere on any sort of prison show. Just a bunch of dudes trying to shower and not think about the hopelessness of their own situations and where they went wrong.

 

Honestly it's a little sad.

 

Satisfied, Dean rolls back his shoulders, then turns to the boy.

 

“Hey,” he says softly, cos the kids looking pale, a hell of a lot more pale than he did a few minutes prior. Dean buries the part of him that wants to reach out and touch his shoulder because he knows that, in his position, any touch now even the more friendly kind would scare the shit out of him. “Kevin- mind I call you Kevin? You okay?”

 

“M’fine.” Kevin's laugh is a wobble in the back of his throat, he smooths his palms across his nose bridge and exhales from behind his hands. “Jesus.”

 

“Yeah it’s it’s-” Dean bends over to pick up the kids towel and hands it to him. “Here.”

 

“Thank you-” Kevins starts and then peters off because he doesn't know Dean's name.

 

When Dean shifts on his footing the sound is a wet slide. God he hates these sorta 'thank you' moments.

 

Aaron had been the damn same to begin with, but of course that had all changed when he'd found a real nice way of thanking Dean proper.

 

Dean adjusts his towel because it's been almost a year since Aaron was released and there's an ache in Dean's chest he doesn't want to spend any real amount of time analysing aside from the fact he misses the regular lay. He's not pining, he's not and resolutely pushes his feelings down.

 

Besides, the kid in front of him is just that, _a kid._ Having these thoughts in front of him makes Dean feel no better then the scum he'd managed to intimidate out of the bathroom.

 

“Winchester," Dean answers and Kevins nods, thankful. "But you know, Dean’s fine with me. And it’s fine man we’ve all been there, just, stick to the end stalls closer to the exit,” Kevin pales considerably and hell Dean better not have put himself in the position to catch a bloody fainting tween. “Look just-come find me whenever you need it alright? My days are pretty empty go figure. So I’m free to shower or chaperone whenever, but I suggest uh, early early mornings man just before breakfast. The fuckers over there are getting pretty lazy in their old age.”

 

At a sound almost like a snort Kevin jumps with a small 'eep'. Of course Dean just ups his attention and whirls around, only to see Cas- _Castiel_ with his back turned to the both of them, the shower giving him a good workover. It strikes Dean quite suddenly that that sounds (what was it a grunt? A laugh?) came from Castiel.  

 

Dean stares at the man a little (not at his butt, not as his fucking _tasty_ looking butt) considers calling Cas out for eavesdropping, maybe asking what's so goddamned funny. But he looks Cas over and he realises, hell, the dude actually is older than Alastair and his lot, but he sure as hell doesn't look it. He's certainly older than Dean, by at least a good thirteen years, but in comparisons to the deterioration Alastair has suffered from meth (and god knows what else) Castiel's looking pretty good. Too good. Light from the window up high hits Castiel's skin softly in a rust-colored hue. It deepens out the lines on his face, softening the crinkles around his eyes, the hard line of his mouth.

 

He isn't looking at Dean, but instead at Kevin.

 

"Cut off their testicles if they try to take away from you." he says, casts Dean _a look_  and then returns to his shower, humming some foreign tune under his breath.

 

What. The. Fuck.

 

"Ah, thanks-thank you." Kevin says to Cas, honestly looking about as creeped out as Dean feels. He turns off his shower head, some soap still clinging around his ears and in his hair, wraps the towel around him like a snuggle and pauses by Dean.  "Seriously Winchester-uh, Dean. Thanks.”

 

“Anytime Kid.”

 

He takes one backwards glance at Reznikov (who's downright enjoying himself the fucker) then heads off himself to go get changed.

 

 

**◇ ◇ ◇**

 

 

“Hey Benny,” Dean asks one day after getting in from his shift on work duty. “These yours?”

 

In his hand he holds a packet of cigarettes. An unopened, new, fresh packet sitting there on his pillow. Dean snatches the box up before it disappears, entirely too aware of just how hard it is to sneak these babies in here what with the schools and prisons of the US going smoke-free and all.

 

At the risk of sounding cliched, one could do a lot of things in prison with a couple of cigarettes in his back pocket.

 

“Nope.” says Benny, returning to his book.

 

Dean opens up the packet and takes a deep whiff. God yes that hit's the spot. His day suddenly looking much brighter, he clamours up onto his bunk, laying back he sticks one of the ciggs between his teeth, whilst jimmying his lighter from the nook he'd stashed it in the brick cell. “Awesome.” he mumbles, flicking the lighter a few times to get the wick to start.

 

There's a huff from below him and suddenly a thump smacking up against the bottom of his bunk. “You have-ta in here Cher?” Benny asks. “As if we don’t have enough stench in here already.”

 

“Yeah well probably be less spunky if your sheets weren’t washed down in jizz every got damn night.”

 

“These hands are doing the Lords work.” quips Benny, making Dean chuckle, but ultimately re-packet his cigarette and stuff his lighter back away.

 

“I see Andrea on Sunday,” says Benny.

 

“Conjugal visit?”

 

Even from the top bunk, Dean can feel Benny's eye roll.

 

“You’ll have to take a video for me,” says Dean. “Or betta yet, if the missus don’t mind, you can come back here and reenact it for me?”

 

“You that hard up for fantasies Winchester? Scooping low in the barrel for married men?”

 

“It’s been a rough year.” Dean rolls over onto his stomach and sticks his head down over the side of his bunk.

 

Benny's stretched out over his mattress, his scrubs undone to his thick waist. He's got his boots kicked up on his bed all comfortable like, and if Dean were any other man ( _or a pussy_ , he tells himself,) Dean would worry about him staining his sheets. but he's not so he doesn't and it's all okay. 

 

“Hey, that the book I recced yah?” Dean asks, looking at the title upside down.

 

“ _The Aeneid?_ " Benny turns and lifts the book cover up to his face for inspection as though he wasn't  _just_ reading the damn thing to begin with. "Yeah," Benny offers in a lazy cajun draw, "gotta say though, I was skeptical to kick off with.”

 

“But it’s decent right?”

 

“Sure takes me away from this hole for a bit.”

 

Dean nods in agreement and forgets all about the smokes for a bit, instead he lies down on his bunk and leans on over the edge  to talk to Benny about Virgil’s allusions to Homer, and whether he’s a ‘bitch-slick-plagiarist’ or a marvel, Dean thinks it’s a bit of both.

 

He does enjoy one later though, out in the yard, the sun shining on his face, enough that Dean shrugs off his upper layer, lies out in the turf-grass with his shoes kicked off, and one hand shielding his eyes.

 

It’s pretty close to goddamn perfect and Dean spends his afternoon working his way through half the pack, smiling around each stick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poorly Translated Russian:
> 
> Bratva: Russian Mafia
> 
> Avtoritet: ‘Authority’ a position in the Bratva not unlike a captain.
> 
> mal'chik: Boy


	2. Ruby Red

There are certain things in Dean’s life that cannot be explained outside of the simple fact that the universe enjoys fucking with him.

 

Two days after his first pack of cigarettes there is another sitting right there on his bed. Nestled on his pillow, as though someone had fucking tucked them in for a good night’s rest. When Dean questions Benny about it the Cajun looks at him like he’s an idiot and reminds him he’s been entirely sober-off the booze and the drugs and apparently the smokes- for well over four years now.

 

And sure that shit’s impressive, but it doesn’t help Dean out any.

 

He learnt to smoke from his father; a burly brute ex-marine, who saw he had a pretty son and seemed determined to push all the softness out of him. Dean had his first puff of a cigarette when he was eight years old and had picked up a regular habit of it by fifteen.

 

But hell, a pack every two days is a lot of smokes, especially considering Dean pretty much soothed his craving for them on that first day. The packs keep coming and aside from the obvious question of _who the fuck kept leaving them here_ Dean has enough trouble figuring out places to _hide_ them all from the CO’s when they do the weekly cell checks. It’s gotten to the point that Dean’s just considering giving the fucking things away because he is not going to solitude over fucking smokes that he doesn’t even want all that much.

 

Benny suggests he hides them, _internally_. Dean suggests that Benny go fist his own ass.

 

Yard time finished about a half hour ago, and Dean has another two hours to go before he’s due for work duty in the library. And so, he takes a little 'me-time' in the showers. He gets a few looks from the CO’s for the request, but considering Dean’s general good behavior (and the good ole Winchester charm) Hendrickson relents and escorts him to the showers, calling Dean a _clean mother-fucker_ to which Dean replies; he’s _gotta keep the goods in check boss._

Hendrickson laughs, he’s good people. One of the better CO’s in the place, so Dean doesn’t usually get the urge to swipe at him for watching every move he makes like a hawk.

 

So he’s showering. Again. That’s the things about showers, you need them like almost every day.

 

Every drop against the shower echoes in the empty bathroom, creating a nice harmony that soothes Dean’s nerves. He sighs heavily, the warm water running over his mouth, dribbling down his chin when he tilts his head back and smooth’s his hands down his chest.

 

Maybe he could fit a few of the ciggs inside. Dean slides his hands down the small of his back- slipping one finger, two down to his crack.

 

Desperate times call for desperate measures.

 

Dean’s so distracted by his own hang ups, his own problems, and maybe because of his fingers and the slick warm water, that he doesn’t even realize someone else is in the bathroom with him right up until the water turned on in another shower.

 

The shower stall _right next_ to his own.

 

A flash of annoyance immediately cuts right through Dean’s relaxation, he peers around the partition, his tongue already quipped at pissed-the-fuck-off levels. “Can I help you?”

 

The words are already out of his mouth before he brain catches up to who he is looking at.

 

“No.” says Castiel Reznikov. He raises his chin up as water cascades over him, opens his mouth and spits some of the water to the side.

 

 _Charming._ Dean thinks, and then thinks _shit_.

 

_In all the stalls in all the world, he parks himself beside mine._

 

Whilst _Casablanca_ is an awesome movie (and god that’s something Dean misses, _movies_ ) It's also not the right call for the moment, you see, Cas isn't a love interest, no sir not in Dean's story, he;s the fucking villian, or atleast the guy who Dean's isn't sure if he wants to kill Dean or rape him. Dean's really not okay with either of thoes two options regardless

 

He thinks about making the suggestion that there’s plenty of other showers, but again, Little Dean’s out in the open here, if Cas was ever gonna do some damage now would be the perfect time.

 

Dean leans out of his own stall and glances at the door, Victor’s doing something on his phone the fucker, (Dean’s not even gonna comment on the irony of the guards and CO’s breaking fucking prison rules). He let Castiel just waltz on in here which is the least reassuring thing to happen to Dean since the mystery cigarettes started coming up.

 

Means Cas even has the good ones eating out of his hand too. Fuck.

 

A part of Dean can’t resent the guy, because Castiel up close in all his splendor is something fucking _nice._ The sheen of water clinging to his skin is flawless, there’s a light sheen of sweat clinging to his flawless skin. Cas’ stomach is toned and his biceps, Dean just wants to chew on them. Maybe after he’s had a go at that cock, which is flushed but soft hanging down against his thigh. Which is when Dean notices it, the tattoo there, peaking out from the inside of his thigh.

 

Dean’s not even sure where to focus his attention cos Cas’ cock and balls are in the way from seeing the full tat, and it’s not like Dean’s gonna ask the man to shift his dick so Dean can get a peak without bending down and fucking snooping up peach his gouch. The ink’s in a script that Dean can’t read greyscale and takes up his whole inner thigh, the same symbols repeated over and over again like a page of writing going right down to curl around his knee. It’s probably Russian, Dean realizes, and blurts without thinking.

 

“What’s it say?”

 

Castiel looks at him, and it’s this side-eyed, wet lashes look that makes Dean duck back behind his partition a little.

 

Castiel stares at him, long and silent. Dean’s eyes unwittingly duck down towards the tattoo. “ _Sem'ya krovi_.” says Castiel, the Russian rolling off his tongue beautifully. He pauses and licks his lips, water falling over his head flattening his dark hair to his forehead. “It is err… family is blood.”

 

“Needed the reminder huh?” Dean smiles sardonically.

 

Castiel continues staring at him not saying anything. And fuck if the joke came off wrong and Cas’ gonna launch himself across the small space between them and kick his ass Dean has no clue what he’ll fight with.

 

The silence stretches long, way too long and Dean’s about to turn off his shower and just get the fuck out of dodge before Castiel speaks.

 

“ _Ty ochen' krasivaya_ _golaya._ ” He says.

 

“What?”

 

“You are very lovely.” Cas repeated his voice a rolling wave, cresting to wash over Dean like an actual physical force.

 

Dean slips in the water and has to catch himself on the partition. “ _Excuse_ me?”

 

“I said-”

 

“I know what you said. Fuck.” Dean hisses. He sees Victor on his phone actively not listening and catches from the corner of his eye Castiel staring at him. “Quit it dude alright.” He snarls and almost presses his nose to the shower tile in an effort to cover all his body with the partition between them.

 

It takes a few moments of silence for Dean to relax. He inhales a deep breath and closes his eyes to the spray, regaining his equipoise as he turns his face up to the water. 

 

Dean hears it just as he’s reaching out to turn off his own water. A short, slow breathless sound under the heavy hum of water.

  
  
Dean freezes.

 

Another moan, low, hollowed a little by the tiles.  

 

Dean can’t stop himself from looking past the partition, something dirty and hot coiling up in his gut.

 

Cas hair is wet and stuck to his forehead, his skin flushed pink with the heat of his shower and he’s standing there beside Dean at just the right angle that Dean can see everything when he looks over. The spread of Cas' legs in line with slim hips. The shape of his ass is emphasized by the perfect line of his spine and his chest down which rivulets of water are dripping catching in the dark thatch of hair that encircles his heavy cock. Dean watches as the muscles in Castiel’s thighs tense, flex with every upwards fuck into his hand. There’s no pace outside of its slowness, the forward jerk of his hips fast but the backwards draw is slow, savoring.  

 

And Dean can see himself so clearly biting kisses up the side of Cas’ neck, nosing at the damp skin behind Cas’ ear. He can see it and fuck he wants it to press up close, shove his dick up so that it rides against the curve of Castiel’s ass.

 

It’s when Dean snaps out of his little fantasy that he sees Cas is watching him, still stroking himself, his other hand running up and down the inside of his thigh, shifting over to fondle his balls, roll them in his palm.

 

Dean chokes, his hand slipping on the facet so fast that the sudden burst of cold water is a culture shock all of its own. He yelps and ducks out of the way, the chubby he’s begun to sport slaps against his thigh.

 

“You fucking serious?” he blurts out staring at Cas, struggling to pick his shit up from the floor and maintain some kind of dignity putting his pants on.

 

Castiel spins around and presses his back against the wall, all without moving his eyes off of Dean. “ _D-Da_.” He manages, stroking and staring. “ _Yebat' ya khochu prikasat'sya k tebe, ya khochu poprobovat' tebya, khochu, chtoby_ ty _._ Mmm-ah- _ **Yebat**_.”

 

Dean has no fucking clue what the other man has just said but hearing that voice hitch and stutter and the growing furious pace of Cas’ hand on his own cock is enough to have Dean almost snagging his own erection on the zip of his suit.

  
  
Castiel screws his eyes shut and presses his head back against the tiles. “Ugh-J-Join or leave.” He says, hand just _pumping._  “ _Ne prosto stoyat' tam s vashim utechki krana_.”

  
  
He lets out a long moan, wrist twisting on ever upstroke, one finger sweeping over his slit.

 

“Fuck.” Dean says and then repeats it a little more forcefully. He tears his eyes away from Cas and storms out of the bathroom, towel slung over his shoulder only the lower half of his jumpsuit done up barely doing anything to hide his arousal. 

 

“The fuck you looking at?” he snarls at Victor who’s sniggering as he passes.

 

The official warning Dean gets for that only sours his mood further.

 

 

 **◇** **◇** **◇**

 

  

“You hear what happened to Brighard?” Shurley asks at lunch the next day.

 

Dean barely looks up from his tray, it is taking all his concentration not to look over at Castiel’s table.

 

“Pissed off the Mexicans.” Shurley comments when no one prompts any further. “No ones talking, but they found him in the bathroom this morning.”

  
  
“Still on the shitter?” Ash asks.

 

Shurley nods.

 

“Fuck, what a way to go,” says Dean.

 

Benny presses his side against Dean’s in silent agreement, Dean flicks a pea (or whatever the fuck it really is) at him.

 

Ash lifts his spoon up and points it at the three of them. “They say you shit when you die man, I mean it’s one of the more convenient ways to go.”

 

Benny makes a noise and rolls his eyes. “Well in that case brother, fuck dignity.”

 

The four of them laugh, Ash, Shurley, Dean and Benny, cos fuck if you don’t laugh it’s fucking tragic. Prison's depressing enough without crying over every dead inmate.

 

“Umm Dean?” says a small voice.  “Rufus told me to give this to you.”

 

It’s Kevin, and Dean feels something a little bit like relief cos if he’s working in the kitchens now that means he’s got less time out in the open, less chance of being fucked with. Dean’s concerns are a little dampened because of what Kevin’s holding.

 

“Pie?” Dean asks, and it’s like the whole world lights up with Disney and shit. Fucking hearts and baby birds flying about. “ _Oh my god.”_

 

Shurley leans over across his seat, an uncharacteristic light to his eyes. “Oh Jesus- that smells good.”

 

“Like heaven. Fuck.” Ash agrees, also leaning on over the table to get a whiff.

 

Instinctively, when the pie is placed in front of him by Kevin, Dean draws it in close to his chest. As much as he likes and enjoys the guys- there ain’t no real friends in prison (with the exception of Benny, but fucked if either of them acknowledge it).

 

Dean’s eyes find Castiel across the cafeteria, cos since the shower (which Dean is resolutely not thinking about), Castiel’s given up the game of avoiding him and is somehow always just _there_. Out in the yard, walking past him in the hallways, in the rec room, fucking always in the showers- _always in the showers_ -like how goddamned dirty can one man get?

 

Dean watches as from across the cafeteria, Castiel reaches into his jumpsuit, out in the open and pulls out a packet of smokes. He taps one out, lights it with his match and a nail and takes a long drag.

 

There’s four CO’s in the cafeteria and not a single one bats an eye at the man.

  
  
Dean’s eyes catch the way Castiel drags on the cigarette and he looks away before he can think on that any further.

 

He knows what those cigarettes taste like, he knows how the filter burns.

 

He’s been sucking on the same brand going on three weeks now.

 

“Fuck.” Dean says, realisation dawning, and because it took him this long to connect it all up, he feels like a fucking idiot. “ _Cas_.”

  
  
“Cas?” Benny asks, squaring up his shoulders, which has the effect of making him look less like a fucking teddy bear and more like a mamma grizzly. Dean sets a hand on his wrist for a moment to ease him whilst cursing himself. Where the hell did ‘Cas’ even come from? It was just an easier way of picturing the Russian in his mind, but since when did the name roll of his tongue as if he’s nicknamed the fucker?

 

“Reznikov,” Dean elaborates. “Fucker’s freaking stalking me, t-that’s what’s happening! The smokes and the pie and the staring!”

 

Stares that Dean himself doesn’t look away from, but he’s not gonna mention that.

 

And he’s not going to mention how many times in the last few weeks he’s touched himself to the memory of Cas in the fucking bathroom.

 

Three sets of eyes drift over to Reznikov’s table.

 

“I think it’s more of a wooing,” says Shurley with a lowered voice. “A creepy, kinda stalkerish wooing.”

 

“Brother, tread lightly ‘ere,” murmurs Benny under a soft breath. He puts a hand on Dean’s knee and keeps his words just between the two of them. “Reznikov’s not the type of man you wanna piss off.”

 

“You know what? Fuck him.” As much as Dean appreciates it he shrugs Benny’s concern and his hand off. It just makes him all antsy and little Dean will react to almost anything these days.

 

Fuck Cas and fuck his stupid mind-fucking exhibitionism.

 

“Assholes gotta learn how things work round here.” Dean snarls.

 

He makes an effort to shoot Cas- _Castiel_ the deadliest of glares. Sits down, and sinks his whole fist into the pie.

 

“Uh… Dean?” Shurley asks. Dean doesn’t look at him.

 

Still glaring, Dean lifts the fist full of pastry and hot mush into his mouth and devours it. He shovels pie into his mouth with his bare hands with a kind of gusto that even has Benny shifting away from him.

 

When he feels all eyes on the table on him he swallows, takes another fistful and grunts. “Mmmph?”

 

Shurley looks fucking terrified to even finish off his question. “You gonna ah- set Reznikov straight?”

 

“After pie.” Dean says, but with the pie in his mouth it comes out more like ‘Ahfffta pah”. He swallows and points an accusing finger, at Shurley just daring the other man to contradict him. “I’ll kick his ass _after pie_.”

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

Dean doesn’t get around to kicking Cas’ ass, not that anyone really expected him to or blamed him. And because he leaves it, a few days later Dean finds not cigarettes, not pie but a slice of fucking cake on his bed.

 

“Want it?” He asks Benny, practically shoving the piece to him. “Granted it’s probably poisoned.”

 

“Well that’s a comfort.” Benny says, rolls over and promptly goes back to sleep.

 

Perturbed, Dean climbs up onto his bunk and hunkers into his bed.

 

He stares at the cake and is convinced that the damn thing stares back.

 

Finally, he swears under his breath.

 

It’s a fucking shame to let the dessert go to waste.

 

Dean eats the slice in his bunk and sucks up all the crumbs. It’s airy and is meringue with hazelnuts, chocolate glaze, and a buttercream-like filling and goddamnit…

 

The thing is fucking delicious.

 

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

“Winchester, shouldn’t you be somewhere?” asks CO Singer, and probably the only really decent (yet cantankerous bastard) in the prison.

  
  
Dean rests his book on his chest face down, and looks up at the sun-glowed guard through his fingers. “Come on Bobby- have you seen the sun out?”

 

It’s a god damned beautiful day, so much so that the grass actually feels a little more real today.

 

“Well sorry princess to interrupt your fucken holiday.” Bobby grunts, hands on his belt, he jerks his chin up. “Get on your feet boy. Still can walk can’t ya?”

 

Dean marks his page by dog-earing it. Grunting as he gets to his feet. “You’re lucky I like you Bobby.” He tells him.

  
“You and every other white-idgit in this joint, now get going.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes and smiles, following the CO to his work duty.

 

  
◇ ◇ ◇

 

The prison library, or as Dean likes to call it the book graveyard, is filled with few literary classics. It’s more of sordid collection of half books and torn pages, the only few complete and actually good manuscripts Dean has hide away in hidden shelves and in his cell.

 

It’s shitty and it smells kinda rotten but fuck if it isn’t one of the only places here where Dean feels at least a little bit human.

 

All that humanity just flies out the window when’s he’s carrying a large stack of volumes and passes by an aisle to see Castiel sitting down on the floor.

 

“Okay, seriously,” Dean says, just a second away from throwing his stack at the man leaning against the shelves. “This is getting ridiculous.”

 

Castiel looks up from his book with an expression that almost seems confused. “Dean?”

 

Dean slams his stack down on the nearest table, heads back to stand in the aisle, he catches himself just before he kicks Cas, and instead yells. “Okay, look buddy I’m gonna level with you, the smokes and the pie and the meringue-”

 

“ _Kyiv_ ,” interrupts Castiel, his voice deep. “ _Tort_. It is tasty.” 

 

“Yeah- that, look thanks but I’m not-” Dean stumbles over his words a little cos Cas is climbing to his feet, evening out the playing field a little as they’re almost the same height. “Not interested-” he finishes lamely.

 

“You are not not interested,” Castiel repeats, as though he’s trying to figure out the words for himself. He squints at Dean and cocks his head. “That is a…a double negative. It means you are interested.”

 

“You’re acting really stalkerish okay!” Dean blurts out and regrets it instantly, _never let them see they’ve hit a nerve_. He growls and digs his arms down into his jumpsuit, tightening his jaw as he speaks. “And even if I was interested- it’s creepy that you get all up in my business my cell and not even Benny the freaking hermit notices? Dude, _seriously_. You don’t fucking give shit to other inmates alright? This isn’t fucking _Valentines_ in high school and I ain’t nobodies prag.”

 

“Dean-”

 

“It’s _Winchester_ , to you.” Dean snarls.

 

“Dean Winchester,” says Castiel with a raised voice and the way he says that, rolling the R’s, and in a voice that sounds like his throat’s been properly fucked, it’s the sexy kind of close enough so Dean gives it a pass, falling into silence. “I do not understand what you are saying. Slow down.”

  
  
Dean blinks. “Wha-what?”

 

Castiel stares at him as though he is an idiot and it’s something that shouldn’t be hot but somehow is. “This is my first time in America,” says Castiel slowly, and hell he says everything slowly and for the first time since meeting him Dean realises why. “Your language is… idiomatic and crude and your speech patterns…” Castiel makes a balled up hand with his fist, spreads his fingers wide upon releasing, his face creased in frustration. “quickly.” He lands on, and Dean feels his eyebrows raise.

 

“You are very difficult to understand.” Cas admits.

  
  
Dean blinks again and then, he pauses, takes a moment and then a breath. “Have you been leaving smokes in my room, scoring me pie?” he asks slow.

 

The puff of breath from between Cas’ lips is one of exasperation. “Scores? I told you I do not-”

 

“ _Giving_ Cas. Are you getting the kitchen to _give_ me pie? Giving me cigarettes?”

 

“Yes.”

  
  
“Why?”

  
  
“I want to.”

 

“Fuck- Cas.” Dean says, cos that’s the kind of sincere bullshit that makes something in Dean’s chest melt to a state like it was _before._ Before prison, before conviction, before everything. He hardens that shit up quick, drawing in some walls and an echo of control, but rounding on Cas and giving him a stone cold glare. “You know where we friggen are right?” he hisses.

 

“Dean,” and there’s a crease between Cas’ brows that is different from the one before, the line of it almost…concerned? “We are in prison. How do you not know this?”

 

Fuck that _sincerity_. Dean can’t help himself, a snort of a laugh works it’s way out of his throat. “No- I know were in prison man it’s just they kinda got a thing here bout queer dudes and rape-”

 

Cas’ mouth forms a thin line. “I have never raped a man.”

 

“But you’ve murdered plenty right?” Dean asks.

 

Turns out Dean’s not the only one with walls.

 

Every line in Cas’ face smooths out and it’s as though a statue has been made of him and then swapped out with the human Cas as a double. Hard and stone like, his voice a crunching stone gargle when he asks.

 

“Why are you here Dean?”

 

Dean knows what he’s asking, and instead of answering that particular question he answers another. “I work here.” He says and gestures to the library at large. “Get a few extra cents in my commissary and it’s a good way to kill some hours.”

 

Dean thought the man was going to call him out for evading the question, and for a second Cas almost looks like he might, but then something about it changes, his eyes widen and he looks around a bit, marvelled by something, then back to Dean.

  
  
“You work here? In the library,” he says. He ducks down to the floor and picks up his book thrusting it into Dean’s hands. Holding it Dean notices that almost ever page is dog-eared. Cas makes him flip to the earliest one and points to a word that’s been underlined. “Tell me,” he says, pointing insistently at the scrawl. “How does this word sound?”

 

The books a pile of gibberish to Dean, one of those texts he suspects they make you study in college. The word Cas is pointing to is at least five syllables long and Dean’s never seen it in his whole life.

 

“Dude, I can’t even read this- what the-” he takes the book more fully in hand and flips it around to read the cover. “ _The_ _Symposium_ ," he reads and then looks up at Cas, “man not one for light reading huh?”

  
  
“There is a reduction of material here. A limitation.” Castiel defends, the undercut to his tone sharpening into something that could easily morph into a growl. He’s leaning against the shelf beside Dean, “I am learning what I can.”

 

“You’re trying to what? Speak English from reading shitty prison fiction?”

 

The crinkles between Cas’ brows are back. He takes a moment probably to decipher what Dean just said, then nods.

 

“That’s-” Dean doesn’t know how he feels about that. Honestly he’s a little shocked. He snaps himself out of it quickly though, claps Cas on the shoulder, freaks out for a moment because he did so, but Cas doesn’t sick hounds on him or punch him or try to cut off his wiener so Dean lifts his hand with a cough and leaving his stack, starts heading deeper into the shelving, intending for Castiel to follow.  “You’ve at least gotta learn with something interesting. Fuck something that makes fucking sense.”

 

A part of Dean is surprised that Cas follows him without question. When they reach the back of the library Dean pauses. He looks out past the aisle and checks that the coast is clear. It is, and so Dean jimmies one of the few chairs next to the shelf. Climbing up on it, Dean uses the shelf to hoist himself up climbs right up to the top and presses makes to press up on the ceiling, he can feel his shirt riding right up, the waistband of his pants slide a little down.

 

He stops for a second and pulls his shirt right down, he does not want to be showing off what he's wearing underneath right now. Being bi and a twink in prison is one thing, having people- especially Castiel fucking Reznikov know all of his secrets is another.

 

So appropriately covered Dean presses up on the ceiling and shifts the one lose ceiling panel. He shields his eyes from the dust and when it's cleared, he reaches one hand up still holding one to the shelf and grabs down the selection of books stashed there, careful not to tear or rip any of the pages.

 

"Here.” Dean says, turning to him to pass down the books.

 

But Cas is staring at Dean’s ass, his eyes a little comically wide the only sign of expression on his face.

 

“Cas?” Dean prompts and shakes the book in front of him. “Yo, Cas?”

  
  
“ _Da_?” Cas says, blinking, he focus’ his eyes on Dean’s face.

 

Dean tries to keep his lips from kicking up at the corners. “You’re gonna end up somebody’s butt-bitch if you keep being oblivious like that.”

 

Castiel frowns and says nothing, but somehow says everything with just a look.

 

“Sorry,” Dean says. “Just say sorry dude.”

 

“Sorry Dude.”

 

Dean can’t tell if Cas is fucking with him, the stone-cold, expressionless man. Dean suspects like he his but Cas gives nothing away, Dean’s gotta respect him for that.

 

He hands Cas the books and jumps of the shelf, making once more that his shirt is pulled down and his waistband set right. Cas doesn’t notice cos he’s looking the books over, turning the four of them around, silently reading the back. “We haven’t got em all,” Dean tells him, “but if you’re gonna be in the joint a while can’t go wrong with a classic.”

 

Castiel flips through the thickest of the books “Harry Potter and the-”

 

“ _Order of the Phoenix_.” Dean finishes, he takes one of the books and holds it himself.

  
  
“The Order of the Phoenix.”  Cas recites crudely, holding the book like it’s precious. He flips it over to the first page, mouth moving as once again he reads out the title.

 

Slow, precise, a little clunky. Dean stares in utter amazement.

 

One of the _Bratva_ , a fucking _Avtoritet_ is standing in Dean’s library flipping through the pages a Harry Potter with nimble, reverent fingers.

 

“I used to read em to my little brother, actually kinda liked them.” He rubs a hand down over the cover. It seems silly a little bit sharing it with someone else, but Dean thinks this books are precious, they’re whole their pages aren’t suspiciously sticky. And hell four out of seven of the series isn’t half bad. The Harry Potter series is one of the few dozens of addition Dean’s managed to salvage. Protect from all the filth and the assholes in this place. Like a pirate burying his treasure Dean’s got books stashed all over the place. Someone's gotta protect them, why the fuck not Dean?

 

He points a finger at Cas and puts on his serious voice. “If you tell anyone bout where I keep em stashed I’ll shiv you in the gut and let you drain out on the floor.”

 

Dean is a second away from regretting the words, but the smirk that curls over Castiel’s mouth, reminds Dean of well… the fact that Castiel, English-learning, head-tilting, cock-teasing Castiel, is part of the _fucking_ _mafia_.

 

“You may try.” Cas smiles all pink gums and clean teeth, and Dean’s traitorous cock gives an enthusiastic twitch.

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

  
With forty of his cigarettes Dean buys himself a ten-minute phone call.

 

_“An inmate from Folsom Federal Prison is attempting to contact You to accept this call please press-”_

“Dean?” says Sam.

 

Dean’s mouth splits into a smile so wide, anyone walking past would think he was getting laid. “Heya Sammy.” Dean says, leaning back against the wall, legs crossed at the ankles.

 

“Hey Dean!” Sam’s voice is a smile down the line that just lights up Dean’s chest. “Thought you didn’t get a call till Monday?”  
  
  
  
“Cashed in a favour,” Dean explains, he holds the phone to his ear with one hand and scratches at his hair with the other. “How you doing man?”

 

_I miss you._

 

“Yeah I’m good Dean. It’s- classes are starting up soon, so I’m just trying to enjoy what free time I’ve got left, get a head start on my reading and studies-”

 

_I miss Jess._

“And he’s pegged as a real hard ass right, but I really want to take this core. I mean I get it history isn’t exactly a field that fits cohesively with law but he really is a genius. So get this- ”

 

_So god damn much._

 

“Sarah’s working on a new exhibit-” Dean comes back into the conversation his wrist wrapped up in the phone cord. Sarah, yeah Dean’d met her a couple of times, she was a nice girl, brunette, smart. Professional. But she’d have to be kind of fucked up to get with a Winchester, also kinda fucked up to willingly come visit Winchester’s inmate brother. “We’ll bring you some pictures when we come out next month.”

  
  
“You know all that artsy-fartsy stuff isn’t for me man.” Dean says.

 

“You’ll like it Dean come on man, didn’t think they’d have much culture in prison eh?”

 

Dean’s answering laugh is hollow, and he’s reminded once more acutely of the duality of these phone calls. How he misses Sam so fucking much but when he calls him he’s reminded of how shitty his fucking life is and how his baby brother is out there looking in on his ‘fuck-up’ of a brother whenever it’s convenient.

 

Dean’s never really gonna get to know Sam, know his life or his two point five kids.

 

_You did It for him man. You did it for him, you did it for him, you did it for him._

Dean’s looking out the window when he notices it. Outside there in the yard a huddle is forming, which in a men’s only prison is never a good sign, it’s small enough that it hasn’t drawn any attention, and small enough that Dean can see through some of the crowd to those who are on the inside.

 

Kevin.

 

Dean swears, almost drops the phone before he remembers Sam is on it. “Look, Sammy- I gotta go.”

  
  
Sam’s voice breaks down the line, as though the connection between them is faulty. “Dean? What-”

 

“Love you.” Dean says distracted, “give Sarah a kiss for me yeah?”

 

He hangs up the phone. He hangs up the phone on _Sam._ And pretty much bolts for the yard.

 

“NO RUNNING INMATE.”

 

Dean slows his run to a brisk walk and once out of sight of the CO shoots out for the front gate, waiting for it to be unlocked for him.

 

When the buzzer sounds Dean’s pushing through the gate and headed right for the group that’s started to garner some attention.

 

It is Kevin in the middle, and fuck he’s taking it hard.

 

“Fucken twink-bitch!” Alastair spits, kicking the kid in the stomach. Kevin spits up blood and doubles over, coughing onto the ground with a wheeze.

  
  
Dean’s pushing, he’s pushing through the crowd but he’s not the only six-foot man in here and when there’s a whole jeering crowd of em takes some time to break through. “Hey- Hey! Back the fuck up!”

 

Dean breaks through the crowd and stumbles into the middle, instantly a hand in on him and Dean swings without seeing.

 

His fist connects with a harsh crunch in someone’s nose, but adrenaline softens the blow to his fist. The other guy crumples regardless, but Dean doesn’t afford him any attention.

 

There’s a sound coming from Kevin that’s hard to explain, something like an animal that’s been beaten down and kicked and in reponse to it Dean breaks.

  
  
“Fucking Alastair! Leave him alone!”

 

“Fuck off Winchester.” Alastair sneers. He’s got one foot on Kevin’s chest pinning him to the ground.

 

“M’serious man,” Dean says, he holds up both hands, utterly aware that he’s more than outnumbered. “Let the kid go, now.”

 

Alastair’s face twists into a mockery of a smirk. “You want him?” he says and gestures to Kevin.

 

Alastair’s saliva is something disgusting and phlegmy that lands on Kevin’s cheek. When Alastair spits on him he leers.

 

Dean reciprocates instantly. He charges and jabs four fingers into the pressure point near Alastair’s armpit. At the same time he hooks one foot around the man’s ankle pressing Kevin down and wrenches that fucker to the ground.

 

In five minutes Dean’s a fucking mess, literally as well as figuratively. There’s blood, both Alastair’s and his own on his shirt and his fists. Deep red smears across the corded muscles of his arms, a particularly brutal punch to Alastair’s nose adds another splattering.

 

Dean hasn’t had a real dogfight in a long time, he’s unpracticed, uncoordinated, especially when some other guys get in on the fight.

 

In retrospect, Dean’s pretty fucking pissed that he doesn’t see the sharpened toothbrush until it’s protruding out of his gut. Honestly? Those fuckers _hurt_ and Dean’s always prided himself on being the type of man who can take a good stabbing without bleeding out on the turf grass. But turns out this time he can't.

 

It’s nice though; lying there on the grass as the dark shapes around him start to disperse and the noise reaches a piercing point that deteriorates into silence. It's nice cos the sun’s out. Hot and bright on the side of Dean’s face. And you know defending a twinks honour is not the worst way to go out in this world.

 

Least it's not on the fucking toilet.  
  
  
God Dean hopes he isn't shitting himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poorly Translated Russian:
> 
> Sem'ya krovi: Family is Blood
> 
> ty ochen' krasivaya golaya: You are very beautiful naked
> 
> Da: Yes
> 
> Yebat' ya khochu prikasat'sya k tebe , ya khochu poprobovat' tebya , khochu, chtoby ty : Fuck I want to touch you, I want you to come
> 
> Yebat: Fuck
> 
> Ne prosto stoyat' tam s vashim utechki krana: Do not just stand there with your cock leaking
> 
> Kyiv: A soft sponge layered cake native to Russia
> 
> Tort: Cake


	3. Emerald Green

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always **unedited, unread, unbetaed**

The first thing Dean sees on waking is Kevin Tran.

 

The first thing he feels is the very real pain of his injury.

 

Dean realizes he is alive, but barely; not that he was barely alive, but that he barely realizes it. The pain in his gut kicks in with a vengeance. A deep aching pain, despite the fact that the wound isn't any more than two inches deep.

 

Anything more and Dean knew he wouldn’t be here.

 

“Fuck Kid.” Dean coughs, trying to clear his aching, dry throat. “You look like shit.”

  
  
“You’re not so pretty yourself,” says Kevin roughly. He’s a kaleidoscope of bruises, the left side of his face resembling a sunset, all smattered with color and pulsing. His left eye is swollen and his nose is thick and purple. Dean can see how carefully he’s holding himself propped up against the headboard.

 

Kevin reaches up with one hand and lightly brushes the hair out of his face. “Dean-” he begins.

  
  
Dean holds up a hand, and regrets the stretch of it when it makes his stomach twist painfully. “Yeah no,” he says, cringing. God his throat hurts. The lot of him hurts.

 

“We’re cool.” He puts his hand down to his hip and squeezes, makes sure that his fucking insides aren’t falling out. “Fuck.”

 

“You got stabbed.” say’s Kevin.

 

Dean holds in his laugh and what feels like his kidney’s through the bandage. “Yeah.” He says. “Yeah, I got stabbed.”

  
  
“You okay?” Kevin asks, his mouth barely moving.

  
  
Dean levels him with a morphine filled look. “Kevin; _I got stabbed_.”

 

The sound Kevin lets out makes Dean’s lips twitch. With a groan he leans back against the pillows, shutting his eyes and reveling in the darkness.

 

The sun’s moved when he opens his eyes again.

 

Kevin is still in the bed beside him, his handcuffed hand limp down his side, the other is holding a book. The title of which Dean can’t see.

 

He’s about to ask where he got it from (ask whether he got it from the library) when he notices the shoebox by his bedside.

  
  
“The fuck?” Dean asks, his head feels a little clearer than before, but the pain is insistent. He makes to reach for the box but his hand is cuffed to the bed. Dean groans, rolling onto his side (fuck) and grabs at the box with bandaged fingers.  
  
  
  
“Don’t-”

  
  
Dean retracts his hand and looks up at Kevin staring at him. “What?”

 

Kevin’s face is too beat up to show much expression. Yet, by the way that he whispers “ _Reznikov_ ,” Dean knows that the kid’s freaked.

 

It takes a couple of tries for Dean to get a good enough grip on the box to drag it on over to his bed.

 

“Nurses came in and checked on you.” Kevin offers, quietly. He stares at the box as if it’s a wild animal that he expects to pounce any minute. “Said you’re gonna live.”

  
  
“Whoopee.” Dean grunts, and lifts up the lid. 

 

The book is in immaculate condition, just as it was when Dean leant it out. A rising Phoneix bursting to life on he front cover. Instead of the Dog Ears Dean remembers from Cas’ copy of _the Symposium_ , a bunch of the pages have been bookmarked with little scraps of paper.

 

Dean looks down and notices what’s under the book.

 

“Oh, _shit,_ ” he says and accidently knocks the box to the floor.

  
  
Kevin jumps up on high alert and stares down over the edge of his bed. His face, aside from the bruises fails. “What is it-is that…is that a _toe_?”

 

Dean knows he’s in too far to turn back when the only thing he thinks is that he’s fucking glad Cas didn’t give him Alastair’s prick.

 

Kevin’s reaction is to promptly vomit onto the floor.

 

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

  
The hospital staff are appropriately freaked.

 

It’s not every day they treat two inmates to a state prison, and then find a dismembered toe in a plastic baggy covered in vomit in said inmates rooms.

 

Kevin gets out of the joint and put back into _the joint,_  before Dean, though the kid’s got a busted in rib and his face looks like a cross between a bruised peach and a puffy pillow. Dean stays in hospital for the next three days, CO's on intermittent shifts posted outside his now private room. For the first day all Dean was given was crushed ice chips to chew on, within the next day his diet was liquid.

 

Though his stomach is growling and his body hurts- hell it's almost like a holiday.

 

Whoever had stabbed him, his briefing from the Warden Fergus Crowley was not so clear, had managed to miss both Dean’s ‘abdominal aorta and vena cava blood vessels,’ so there was ‘apparently no peritoneal contamination’ which by his general vitality and aliveness Dean took as a good sign. The toothbrush-shiv had pierced him right to the side, knicking off his hipbone. With a fair amount of blubber to puncture, the stab wound was deemed unlikely to be fatal a few hours before Dean’s initial waking. Yet still given that it was a toothbrush from a federal prison, Dean’s on bed rest and on watch, and for the most part no one talks to him.

 

It’s the closest to freedom that Dean has had in three years. He’s stuck in a hospital room, the curtains are shut, everything is an a painful _painful_ white, it smells like antiseptic and old people and Dean never wants to leave.

 

“Winchester?” CO Phillips calls on the fourth morning of Dean’s vay-cay. He stands by the door and looks in on Dean, fiddling with the com on his belt. “Can you walk?”

 

It’s not so much a question as it is a command.

 

It takes a while for Dean to get to his feet, especially with one hand still cuffed to the bed railing. Phillips is pretty green to Folsom, so he's not keen to be uncuffing Dean anymore than he literally has to, reagrdless of how fucking _hard_ it makes everything. After three days the pain in Dean's abdomen isn’t as acute, but still there’s a tightness down there with his skin and his muscles that makes the veins in his neck strain.

  
  
After working his way up on to his feet, Dean is shuffled along to the door with a hand on his arm. “Gotta pee inmate?” Phillips asks.

  
Dean shakes his head.

  
  
“Good enough.” Says Phillips and escorts Dean, very slowly, back to prison.

  
  
  
◇ ◇ ◇ 

 

 “Dean-” Benny gets up from the table outside and meets Dean halfway across the courtyard. Uncaring for the prisoners around them, he draws Dean into a one armed hug. “How you feeling brother?” he asks lowly. Dean slaps him on the back in answer, before they both draw away.

 

  
“Like I got fucked by a cheese grater at prom.” He answers, he can feel Benny chuckle against his chest.

 

  
He escorts Dean back to the table, and though Dean wants to tell him he doesn’t need a bodyguard but the matter of the fact is, the moment he’s seen as weak he’s gone, and Benny’s strength and size and general non-stabbed-ness is nothing but helpful at the present time.

 

  
“You should be inside.” Benny murmurs between them, as they approach the table where quite the vigorous game of _Uno_ is being played.

 

   
“No. Sun good.” Dean says, he sucks in a little air when seating down at the metal table. He lets it out on a long breath as he gingerly lowers himself down. “Prison bad.”

 

With his eyes still on his cards Kevin nods and gives an ‘Mmmhmmm.’  

 

Shurley just looks up, casting Dean the smallest, and shiftiest of smiles.

 

Dean’s never asked why the other guys are in there, he has a vague inkling about Benny and a DUI gone worse-than-bad, Ash he suspects has something to do with extortion. Kevin- god- Kevin he hasn’t got the foggiest.

 

Shurley’s a mystery too, and Dean’s honestly happy to keep it that way.

 

Ash reaches across the table and clamps Dean on his shoulder. He’s got two Reverses’ and one change the colour +4, Dean figures he might have Shurley, though Kevin looks a bit pleased with his own hand.

  
  
“Good to see ya walking dude.” Ash says.

  
  
“Thanks man.”

 

Dean closes his eyes to the sun a moment, resting more heavily on the table in front of him.  Though his eyes are closed, he can hear Ash whispering to Shurley across the table. “Fritz owes me his next noodle cup I’m telling ya. I told ‘im he wasn’t dead.”

 

Dean flips Ash the bird and leans his head down on Benny’s comfortable shoulder. He breaths out a soft noise when Benny wraps an arm around his shoulders. Dean’s not ashamed, life’s tough in the joint and you learn to take whatever affection you can, so long as you’re in front of the right people.

 

“You guys remind me to thank Cas for all that food yeah?” says Dean, eyes still closed. “Extra layer of fat pretty much saved my life.”

 

Dean’s comment is met with an intense silence. Benny’s shoulder grows stiff under his cheek.

 

“Alright,” Dean says with one eye open. “Who died. Shurley, you been eating fucking lactose again?”

 

“Alastair.” Benny answers in a rumble.

 

Dean closes his eye. “I figured.”

 

Benny’s arm drops from his shoulder. “You _figured_?”

 

Fuck, Benny’s got that damn look on his face- a look like disappointment. Dean straightens in his seat, and speaks down to his lap. “Cas sent me a-ah, token of it.”

 

Shurley and Ash are staring at him now.

 

“Rodrick, Jameson, and Stevens.” Kevin adds quietly. “They’re dead too.”

 

Well Dean certainly didn’t receive _that_ many toes. “Shit, man.”

 

“Did Reznikov happen to mention how it all went down to you man?” Shurley asks. “Cos I gotta say he was, you know I mean…how Alastair was found…”

 

Dean’s sitting right up now, the twinge in his gut the only indication of all his muscles tensing. “How was he found?”

 

Shurley blinks and almost looks as though he’s gonna try and hide behind his cards. “Well uh- umm.”

  
  
“His tongue was cut off,” says Ash, “and shoved up his ass. He suffocated in his own blood.”

 

Well shit.

 

“Well shit,” Dean says aloud, holding a hand down to his stitches. His fingers curl slightly in the front of his jumpsuit. He glances at Kevin, who’s eyes are downcast, his hand limp displaying his cards. “Can’t say the guy didn’t deserve it.”

 

“B block was shut for the whole afternoon for cleaning,” says Shurley with morbid fascination. He shuffles the cards in his hand, sets them down, and then leans across the table. “Word is he looked like hell, the whole lot of them did, cut up and bloody.”

 

“He deserves hell,” said Dean, and met Kevin’s lowered eyes across the table, before ducking his own to focus on his hands. “ _Rapists_ deserve hell.”

  
◇ ◇ ◇

 

Dean’s in the library when it happens, trying to get back to work duty, trying to earn those few extra cents he needs in order to buy that heat pack in commissary. He’s taken a moment out to pick up on of the books and open it gently and inhale. The smell of paper pages and decaying glue is a comfort- despite the morbidity of loving the scent of essentially dying books.

 

Dean’s aware of eyes on his back from the end of the aisle well before the voyeur speaks.

  
   
“Dean?”

 

It’s Castiel (because of course it is.)

 

“H-hey Cas.” Dean doesn’t look over, he doesn’t even look up from his book. It takes him about one second to realise that that’s probably not the best way to deal with his admirer/murderer.

  
Cas stalks into the aisle and it’s beautiful, very beautiful. His now beige jumpsuit tied off at the waist, leaving only a tight white tank that is so very tight across his arms and chest.

 

 “Show me.” He growls, his eyes are dark but he doesn’t seem pissed. Whatever he’s feeling Dean figures it is an intense Russian off-chute of that.

 

“C-Cas.”

 

It's a blur, but suddenly Dean is pinned against the wall, the books he was holds fall to his feet. Dean realizes he’s scared, oh fuck is he scared. This is fucking terrifying. Cas' arm is at his throat, his entire body a breath away from Dean’s, so close that when he speaks Dean can taste his accent.

  
  
“ _Show_ _me_.”  

 

Cas’ accent is thick, thicker than usual for such few words. Dean doesn't want to move, is too much of a coward to but obediently he works a hand down between them and lifts up his shirt.

 

The lack of pressure on his neck is enough to make Dean gasp a little and then choke on the sudden influx of air.

 

Cas barely takes a step back to look at him. His eyes like a hawk fix on Dean’s abdomen where the skin is puckered, stitched, but beginning to scar and turn pink.

 

Dean stares down at himself, at the mark left on him (not really pretty by any means), then he looks up at Cas and says; ‘I’ve had worse,” offhandedly.

 

Cas drops down to his knees.

 

The sudden shift is so fast that for a second Dean believes Cas just disappeared right in front of him.

 

The press of a forehead to his belly, and then the hot outline of a mouth gently brushing against his wound signifies where Castiel disappeared to.

  
  
“Dean.” Cas breathes against him, making Dean’s skin pebble and his whole body twitch. Hands shift up and take Dean by his hips, holding him steady as Cas leans forward once more, pressing the faintest of kisses to the spot, before tracing the perimeter of Dean’s wound with the tip of his tongue. “Dean-”

 

Hands on his skin, a thumb rubbing in soft circles, a mouth on his stomach breathing heavily, before lips are added feather light, and a tongue a little harder works it’s way in a squiggly pattern across to Dean’s happy trail and _fuck-_ Cas’ hands tighten, pressing Dean back against the wall, his mouth moving directly down-

  
  
A single word works its way out of Dean’s throat. “Stop.”

 

Dean’s more than surprised when Cas actually obeys.

 

Slowly, the Russian sits back on his heels and looks up. “You are uncomfortable.” He says as though he wasn’t just tonguing Dean’s fucking stomach.

 

Dean almost laughs in spite of the whiplash because the Cas from a minute ago had him held to the wall pinned by his neck and the Cas of the moment is on his knees staring up at Dean with an open expression.

 

Dean Winchester’s fucking life. He can feel Cas’ salvia cooling on his skin.

 

Dean drops his shirt down and takes a step to the left, putting distance between them. “I uhh… Y-yeah.”

 

Castiel’s lips thin. He says nothing.

 

“Cas did you…” And Dean remembers where they are, he remembers where they are and who they are and looks up to the camera, in the corner. Looks to the right as though he can look through the shelves and see some of the other inmates milling about the aisles, the CO who’s guarding the entry point.

 

“Shit,’ he says with sudden claustrophobia. Without really thinking too much on it, he grabs Cas’ shoulder and tugs on him till he’s standing. "Come on.”

  
  
“What are you doing?” Cas asks as Dean leads him to the back of the library, the furthest recesses of the back shelves.  It’s not like the library is huge or nothing, but Dean’s seen plenty of un-kosher shit happen back hear to know it’s as close to privacy as the two of them are gonna get.

 

He can feel Cas’ salvia sticking his shirt to his belly. He tries to push the sensation of that out of his mind. “It’s private.” He begins, dragging Cas right to the back and in-between two aisles. “Sorta.”

 

As soon as they’re out of ear and eyeshot Dean drops his hold on Cas and takes a good parting step between them.

 

As soon as he’s let go, and he realises their relative privacy, Cas steps forward. “Dean-”

 

Dean holds out a hand to stop him. “Did you off all those guys Cas?” He asks, keeping his voice pitched low all the same. He’s full of something that’s not quite anger and not quite fear but a gut-sinking mixture of the two. “Alastair, Rodrick, Jameson, fucking _Stevens_?”

 

“They hurt you,” says Cas and Dean finds himself balking.

 

“ _Jameson_ and _Stevens_ didn’t hurt me Cas. They weren’t part of the fight.” His words are a hiss that loses some of its steam near the end there, when Dean leans back against the shelves and rubs a furious hand through his hair. “Fuck man, Stevens was ninety years old. Man could barely walk!”

 

The strain in Cas’ voice could be used to string up a violin, unlike his voice, his expression is utterly blank. “He had debt.”

  
  
“He had debt?” Dean repeats with something like exasperation, at least until it all clicks- _click-_ in his mind. “Th-that’s why you’re here right, you’re collecting?” Cas says nothing as Dean begins pacing, his mind whirling in a hundred different directions. “Oh Jesus fuck this is like one of those ‘you gotta pay up things’ in the mafia right?” he points a finger at Cas. “You’re the consequences guy.”

 

“Alastair touched you.” Cas snarls, ignoring Dean’s words entirely.

 

“That’s putting it lightly-”

 

Cas steps forward, his voice drops further, a hum that reminds Dean of the impala’s engine speeding down an empty country road. His mouth is set in a hard thin line, he squints ferociously. “Alastair _hurt_ you.”

  
  
The bookcase pressing into Dean is hard, but the cut of Cas’ jaw is harder. Dean swallows and has to look away, take a moment to gather some words into his mouth, try and catch the idea that are swimming about in his brain.

 

“You know what this is suddenly, making a hell of a lot of sense. How someone like you is here, in the middle of butt fuck nowhere?” Despite his position, Dean waves his hand vaguely before setting Cas up with an accusing stare. “Brighard didn’t piss off the Mexicans and get shived either right?”

  
  
Dean almost misses the small twitch to the corner of Cas’ mouth. “He did ‘piss off’ the Mexicans.”

 

Dean’s answering laugh is one part pissed, one part hysterical. “This is- this is some Godfather shit right here.” With hand is over his mouth and Dean breathes into it, trying to process the absolute bullshit that has become his life. The hand shifts up into his hair. “Shit Cas you- you just-”

 

The hand over his mouth stops him from talking.

  
  
“You talk too much,” says Cas. “Worry.” Dean’s face is slack under Cas’ hand, and he can’t stop his lips from parting when Cas’ trails his hand down, over Dean’s jaw, tracing the line of his throat. _"YA mogu pomoch' vam v etom"_  he whispers, leaning in close.

  
  
“I don’t speak Russian.’ Dean replies, and his words come out sounding like a fucken tragedy. “

 

“ _Ya mogu pomoch' vam v etom_. _Vashi guby slishkom ideal'no podkhodit dlya Russkogo yazyka.”_ The roll of Cas’ words, how deep and rich they sound on his tongue, is almost enough to distract Dean, When Cas, once again, lowers himself. “

 

“ _Ya khotel prikosnut'sya k vam s momenta ya videl vas_  .” Hands travel down Deans sides, below his shirt, caressing his hips in the smallest of increments. The nimble fingers and strong calloused palms touch Dean as though they’re memorizing him. Dean whimpers head falling back against the bookcase, his fingers dig into Cas’ hard shoulders. His dick is starting to get hard and shit.

  
  
Just… _shit_. When Cas’ hands slip under the waistband of his pants Dean doesn’t tell him to stop. He does take a moment to remember what underwear he put on today, but when Cas’ pulls down white briefs, a little part of Dean is almost disappointed.  “Fuck” Dean sighs as Cas’ hand closes over his erection.

  
  
“So beautiful.” Cas murmurs, giving Dean to languid, dry-handed strokes that cause the most beautiful friction that has Dean leaking. _“Ya_ lyublyu _, kak ty_ pakhnesh _', kak_ vy vkusu _.”_  Cas isn’t the type to waste any time on teasing. He grasps Deans cock at the base, leans forward on his knees and swallows him all the way down, burying his nose in the thatch of wiry hair between his legs.

 

“O-oh oh mmm- _fuck_!” Dean gasps, forgetting himself.

 

There’s the sound of a wolf-whistle from a few aisles over, someone in the other direction laughs.

 

Dean almost dislodges Cas from his cock as he bucks, slamming his fists against the shelves behind him in a furious grip as Cas strokes his sac with one hand.

 

 **“SHUT THE FUCK UP!”** he screams out. The jeers only a slight annoyance in the sight of Cas' touch and attention.

 

Cas pulls back with a chuckle, and licks a long thick stripe up Dean’s cock, pressing him hard against the bookshelf by his hips.

 

Dean’s grasping at the shelving behind in, trying so, so hard to keep himself in chest. But Cas’ tongue is wicked. He works Dean deep in his throat, sucking him back up, hands smoothing over him. “Ugh f-fuckshitfuck C-Cas!”

 

It’s been a year, Dean thinks, it’s not his fault that he doesn’t last very long. Honestly, it’s probably a good thing given the attention they're garnering.

 

A soft, satisfied moan sounds from Dean’s throat. Every muscle in his body tightens at the height of it, his toes curl in his boots, and his chest expands with a massive lungful of air. He spasms into Castiel’s mouth, clutching at a loose books which sends him almost tottering over when it falls.

 

Castiel sucks down every last drop, his lips a tight seal around Dean’s erection- as though he’s a man dying of thirst who has never had water.

 

As Cas rises from his knees, he smooths his hands over Dean’s stomach, his sides, his wound. It’s there he stops and takes a beat, halfway between standing and crouching. Very lightly, he presses down enough that it causes a twinge of discomfort.

  
  
Dean’s transfixed staring down, he only blinks when Cas looks up at him and tilts his head.

 

“Lovely cock.” He comments, standing up fully, releasing Dean.

  
  
Dean- to his own credit- is left standing there clinging to the bookshelf to keep him upright, with his pants down around his ankles and his cock, now soft, slick and well-loved, hanging pitifully between his legs.

  
  
“Th-thanks.” He says, around a sound not unlike a hiccup.

 

Castiel gifts him with a nod then, starts to pick the books up off the floor.

 

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

Dean’s abdomen goes from purple to blue to green to yellow. His stiches heal and the ones that don't dissolve get pulled.

 

They don’t speak about it. They barely speak at all really. And Cas certainly never asks for reciprocation, and Dean sure as heck doesn’t offer. So the next few weeks are filled with random intervals in which Cas undoes Dean’s pants and takes him into his hand, into his mouth with little to no prompting or warning. It’s gotten to the point where Dean’s stop wearing his super-top-secret -and-hidden collection of panties because he’s afraid Cas is gonna catch him in them one day.

 

He’s cornered Dean out in the yard behind the Utilities shed to give him a hand-job a few times and, once just outside Dean’s cell whilst all the other inmates are attending dinner. He’s sucked Dean off in the library three times now, always in the back row, always quick and messy and _filthy,_ and Dean comes as if it’s his first time every time because he’s just that hard up for a good lay (he refuses to acknowledge that Castiel is just that good) _._  

 

Regardless, Cas’ mouth and hands makes Dean’s toes curl, his blue eyes flick up to Dean and calculate his reactions as he bobs his head, his fingers brushing over the sensitive stops on Dean’s stomach, his hips and inner thighs. Dean always loses himself a bit in the touch on the rare occasions Cas opts for fondling his sac.

 

Dean is reduced to uncharacteristically inhibited moans and having his head fall back against the nearest, hardest surface Cas has managed to push him up against.

 

It Is at one such occasion; where one of Dean’s legs is hooked over Cas’ shoulders, drawing him in as he stands on one foot and Cas tongues at his balls and between his asshole that Dean blurts out that he thinks Cas should sit with him.

 

Dean is a complete and utter idiot.

 

“Up,” Cas instructs and hikes Dean’s cocked leg further up his shoulder, hooking it in place as he burying his face right back between Dean’s spread open legs and goes to town.

 

There’s something to be said about the god-awful position, somehow it strings Dean out tighter, adds a little _umpf_ to Cas’ ministrations.

 

Dean’s cock is heavy between his legs, hot and wet as hell leaking into Cas’ hair, smearing across his scalp. Dean groans, he wants to touch himself as Cas lavishes him with his tongue, but he needs both hands to stay upright he’s so close to fucking falling.

 

“S-should come sit with us.” Dean breathes out in a hush, digging his fingers into Castiel’s hair and forcibly attempting to bury the Russians face deeper between his legs.

 

Fuck maybe he should just turn around and let Cas go to town on his ass.

 

Castiel hums a low note and rubs his nose against the soft, hairy skin between Dean’s hole and ball sac. His hair tickles Dean’s cock and makes him moan.

  
  
“I did not know you have friends.” He says against Dean’s skin, and though the words are casual, hell almost teasing, Dean can sense the rough edge there, but he elects to ignore it.

 

“ _Had,”_ he corrects Cas around a gut-punching groan. “Cas it's- H-h- _had_!”

  
  
Dean forgets all sense and all of his words until several minutes after Cas is already licking him clean and tucking Dean’s spent cock back into his pants.

 

“Benny.” Dean answers when he’s caught his breath, “Cellmate since I got in the joint, nice guy. Garth doesn't come out of the kitchen much, a little loopy. Ash, and Shurley white dudes I guess, they’re pretty cool. Kevin’s with us now too, kids quiet and likes to read-”

 

 “Kevin…the Asian you saved?” Castiel’s voice sounds strained. And it’s either from sucking Dean’s cock and licking him out for the last three-quarters of an hour or it’s because of the topic, either way Dean decides to let sleeping Russians lie.

 

He flushes because he fucking didn’t _save_ anyone. He’s never been able to save anyone in his whole goddamned life, why the hell would he start with a practical stranger when he’s not able to even do the same for his own damned family?

 

Dean says ‘yeah’ then decides to poke the sleeping bear further, just because he can and though he’s still coming down from his afterglow, he’s also a little shit.

 

“You should come sit with us some time.” He tells Cas.

 

Cas wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. There’s white pre-come dotting his hair like droplets of hair-gel and Dean doesn’t even think twice about reaching over to wipe them away, which just does a god awful job of spreading the mess into Cas’ roots, clumping his short hair together and making it sticky.

 

Dean sniggers down at him while Castiel glares.

 

“Oh come on Mary.” Dean says. “Grow a sense of humor.”

 

Castiel swats at his hand with a low growl. And for the first time the sound and the other man’s murderous expression (instead of frightening Dean or making him horny) just simply and wholly makes him laugh.

 

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

“So umm, this is new.”

 

Kevins gestures between Dean and Castiel with the soft prongs of his spork, his voice a little quieter than usual.

 

Dean’s able to feel four sets of eyes on him and Cas from across the other side of the table (cowards, the lot of them). “Yep.” He says, and keeps digging into his meal.

 

Eggs, god, the day's already off to a good start when Dean gets to have eggs in a meal.

 

Benny’s voice, when he speaks, is almost as growly and accented as Cas’. “This a permanent thing brother or a one time roll around-”

 

“Permanent.” Cas answers for Dean as Dean says; “We’ll see.”

 

They both turn to stare at each other. Cas all passive and Russian-y, Dean all glarely and tense.

 

“Oh-kay.” Whistles Ash, going back to his meal.

 

In ensuing silence is awkward. Dean eats his meal with renewed (and somewhat forced gusto) Cas just keeps looking at him.

  
 

“So…Uh  Ca-Reznikov,” Shurely begins, wringing his hands in the shirt of his jumpsuit. “Did you really cut off Alistair’s tongue and stick it in his ass?”

 

Dean curses the day that the weedy man was born.

 

Castiel just turns his stare at Shurely.

 

That seems proof enough for Shurley because he shudders (in a way that grossly sexual). “Jesus-” It’s said with fear and a good deal load of unsettling interest. His hands still as he puts them in his lap and leans over his food tray to Cas, like the secret girly gossip he is. With the most interest Dean’s seen in him the better part of three years, he asks Cas; “What was that like?”

 

“Unpleasant.” Castiel offers, his eyes narrow. 

 

Dean snorts his laugh into his drink. “Dude.” He says to Cas, smiling.

 

Cas stares.

 

Shurley looks a beat away from orgasming or passing out (the creeper). Benny seems concerned whilst Ash and Kevin exchange unreadable looks, neither of them commenting as they go back to their meal.

 

Castiel to his own credit; just stares at Shurley a bit, as unreadable as stone. Then, seemingly satisfied with the amount of unease he’s caused within the group, lowers his head and focus’ back on eating his breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Crapily Translated Russian:
> 
> YA mogu pomoch' vam v etom: I can help you with that
> 
> Mogu pomoch' vam v etom . Vashi guby slishkom ideal'no podkhodit dlya russkogo yazyka: It is for the best. Your lips are too perfect for the Russian tongue
> 
> YA khotel prikosnut'sya k vam s momenta ya videl vas: I have wanted to touch you since the moment I saw you.
> 
> YA lyublyu, kak vy chuvstvuyete , kak vy vkusu: I love how you feel, the way you taste.
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Comments and Kudos are deeply appreciated!**


	4. Pastel Pink

Dean’s trying to figure out if it’s even worth trying to salvage the suspiciously sticky copy of _Cat’s Cradle,_ or if he should just rip out some of his favourite and untainted passages and bin the rest when Bobby comes in, smacking his hand on the door frame.

 

“Winchester!” He yells, smiling behind his bristly beard and professional expression when Dean jumps. “Pack on up, you’re on Laundry duty.”  
  


It takes a full second for Dean to realise just what’s been said. “Laundry Duty? Bobby-”

 

“Directors orders,” Bobby huffs, prompting Dean forward with a stern- almost parental look. “Move on out Winchester. You’ll be working in laundry from now on.”

 

Dean is pissed. He goes quietly because there’s nothing he can do about it, but he proceeds down to the laundry room with all the demeanour and attitude of a two-year old having a tantrum.

 

His anger is directionless, with no outpouring aside from fury at the system and the ‘director’. He stalks past a series of inmates, all of whom back out of his way. He ignores the looks others throw him, and even ignores the instance in which he hears him name being called out.

 

That anger channels into a funnel when he hits the laundry room, and none other than Castiel fucking Reznikov is there, sitting on top of one of the washers, nose buried in _Harry Potter and the Half-blood Prince_.

 

Dean’s mind ticks over, reason filtering through the red rage.

 

Fucking Castiel.

  
  
It doesn’t count for jack shit that Cas is mafia.  _Dean is_ _pissed_.  He’s so fucking angry that he storms into the room, fists clenched, a dangerous kind of anger thrumming through him. He strides up to where Cas is sitting hunched , concentrating on the page before him, his mouth moving along with the words, pronouncing them in a hushed, thick voice.

 

With the way Dean’s feeling right now the image doesn’t fill him up quite as warmly as it normally would have.

 

Cas barely looks up at Dean’s approach. “Dumbledore is a _manipulyativnoy svoloch_.” He begins, turning to the next page, marking it absently with his thumb. “He knows the- the Der-slays are abusing Harry, yet he makes the boy go away with them because he needs him to fall in love with the Wizarding World, in order to use him.”

 

Before Dean can really stop himself and consider the consequences, he yanks the book out of Cas’ hands and throws it down onto the sorting table.

 

“What the actual fuck, Cas?” he asks.

 

Cas is not the type to just sit there and blink, his reactions too on point, his reflexes pristine his history just a little too fucking crazy. Which is why it comes as such a surprise to Dean that he barely reacts at all. Simply blinks ones, eyes shifting from where the book was in his hands to where it is now tossed onto the table.

  
  
Very slowly, Cas’ eyes trail up and settle on Dean’s face. “I could ask you ‘the actual fuck’ as well,” he replies using damn _finger quotes_ , “I was reading Dean.”  He lowers his hands.

 

He slides off the washer and comes to his feet standing tall and bizarrely cool in front of Dean.

  
  
Dean’s puffing through his nose like a rampaging bull. “No seriously,” he spits. “What the fuck?”

 

“Dean.” His name is said in a way reminiscent of those first few meetings the two of the had. Hearing it, Dean draws himself up, rolling his shoulder back his body automatically tensing.

 

Nothing comes of it, but Dean’s still tense. Cas seems to sense this and for the first time Dean can recall, he looks away- only for a moment, breaking the tense air by doing so, before his blue eyes are back once more, his voice –this time- softer. “Dean-”

 

Dean hates himself for still feeling the intense desire to take a step back. “Say my name one more time Cas, I dare you-”

 

Cas just looks at him with the visual equivalent of a huff. “De-”

 

“Jesus.” Dean catches himself from smacking Cas in the face on principle alone. He holds his fists down by his sides and glares at the man opposite. “Cas- I liked the job I had.”

 

Something close to understanding creeps into the lines of Cas’ face. It’s gone as soon as Dean notices it, swallowed up by hardness, that settles Cas’ features like brick, his jaw locks. “You can do your own laundry now.” he side-eyes Dean and looks up the length of him, a slow easy perusal which despite everything makes Dean feel a little heated. Cas’ eyes pause, once on his hips, then again on his face. He looks away before he speaks. “The machines have a delicates cycle.”

 

“I don’t give a fuck about the machines washing cycle Cas.”  Dean argues, watching as Cas turns, picks up the book and uses a scrap of paper from his pocket to mark his page instead of folding the corner. The thing in Dean’s chest that he likes to pretend doesn’t exist in here gives one vital, heavy thump at the sight, his next words come out strained.

 

“I _liked_ the library.” He says dimly.

 

“But you were weak there,” answers Cas.

 

Whatever- _whatever_ it was that was in Dean’s chest being all warm and kinda nice a minute ago evaporates like water on a sidewalk. “ _Weak?_ ” he growls.

 

Cas’ eyes widen a fraction and he shakes his head.  Book set aside, the steps toward Dean. “No… _Blyad_ …Vulnerable.” He repeats that to himself once more, saying the word ‘vulnerable’ on a quiet breath, eyes squinted as he does as though he’s trying to read it in the air. Satisfied he’s found the right word he looks at Dean and iterates; “You are safer here. I can protect you.”

 

Though Dean’s not feeling quite so much like a raging animal at the moment the insinuation that he needs _protecting_ just about sets him right back on that path.

 

He shoves Cas in the chest, hard, stepping right up till their nose to nose. “Look _Castiel,_ just cos I come on your face a couple times and _maybe_ let you play with my ass a little does not mean you get to suddenly _own_ me.”

 

‘ _Vy nevynosimy_ ,’ says Castiel without moving away.

 

Dean balks. “The fuck you say to me?”

 

“It does not translate.”  
  


“You’re a fucking liar.”

 

Castiel shifts the hard line of his shoulder up in a shrug. He looks at Dean and then, as though his legs have disappeared from right out beneath him, sinks down to the floor. “I want to fellate you, now.” He says to Dean’s crotch.

 

Unthinking, Dean drags him back up to standing by the scruff of his jumpsuit. He’s not having any of that shit- not now. “No, Cas,” he says, and it’s like holding a damn kid by their ear, keeping Cas off of his knees and from sucking Dean’s cock. Dean only has a moment to question his own sanity before Cas is out of his hold, glaring somewhere off past Dean’s shoulder.

 

Dean ignores the look, reaches out. He takes Cas’ shoulder by the hand and squeezes, a monochrome form of comfort. “Talk to me man, what’s going on?”

 

Cas mumbles something in Russian far too low to hear.

  
  
Dean frowns at him. “What?”

 

“ _Eto_.” Cas says, and then kisses him.   They haven’t done this- kissing. Putting Cas’ lips on Dean’s or Dean’s lips on Cas’. Usually Cas’ lips have been a bit too buys down south to pay much attention up here. So it takes Dean by surprise how sure Cas is going into it, drawing Dean in with hands on both his cheeks, tilting his head just the slightest bit, so their lips catch and meet.

 

Dean feels the roughness of Cas’ stubble against his jaw. Cas is a firm line of heat against him, smelling of cheap prison shampoo and even cheaper prison soap. His thick fingers stroke over the curve of Dean’s jaw down to loop around his neck fingers threading through the hair on the back of Dean’s skull as though he’s petting.

 

His lips are warm and soft and insistent and fuck that is his tongue. Dean opens his mouth more out of instinct than anything concrete. Cas slides his tongue inside changing the kiss to hot and slick instead of a simple touch.

 

Cas feels unlike anyone Dean has ever had before, kisses like he’s something different. And maybe he is, a rare fucked up puzzle piece joining up with Dean’s own fucked up edges. The picture on top utter nonsense, but somehow the lines and colors still meet up.

 

Dean pulls back before the kiss can deepen too far. Fuck. He’s shaking.

 

 “I am sorry Dean,” Castiel murmurs, feeding the words into his mouth, pressing them against his throat, before he draws back, hands lifted from around Deans neck. “But I need to protect you.” He says gravelly.

 

Even though they’re still touching Dean _aches._

  
  
“The hell are you protecting me from?” he asks. And when Cas is silent he nudges him, well nudges Cas’ cheek with his nose, like that dog with the meatball in that movie Sam used to watch as a kid, and isn’t that just fucking disgusting.

 

 Fuck, Dean is _ruined_.

 

“Cas?”

  
  
Cas doesn’t answer him.

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

Apparently Dean and Castiel have some unspoken agreement that they’re not going to discuss their chick flick moment of indulgent kissing.

 

Dean is utterly and one hundred percent on board with that plan, of trying to forget that ‘he kissed a dude who sticks tongues in people's asses and not in the sexy way’, which is followed very closely by the knowledge that Cas is here, specifically to _kill people_ \- and he could very well turn around and kill Dean at any moment he damn well wants to.

 

Instead, it seems, Cas wants to kiss him instead. Which is truthfully, far far better than killing him, but possibly ten times as dangerous.

 

And so they don’t talk about it, not when they’re messing about, not when they’re in the rec room or out in the yard or folding (fucking) laundry together. Which is totally fine by Dean; he’s totally on board with the whole undefined, mysteriousness of it all. And so he refuses to comment on it when something about whatever it is between them shifts, allowing for kisses, allowing- after his _climaxing moment_ \- for foreheads to be pressed together, for soft words left unspoken.

 

Dean thinks it’s all fine and dandy, they both know something has changed, and since they’re the only two people in the world such a thing concerns there’s no need to go on _talking_ about it.

 

It would be nice some days though for Dean to feel a little more certain about the fact that Cas wasn’t going to stop and try to kill him.

 

Days like today.

 

“Got a gift.” Benny says when Dean re-enters their bunk after a couple hours spent outside with the other boys. Ash is convinced he’s found himself a killer roach, training the sucker up to take on the current champion of the Folsom Prison races, a beetle by the name of Brutus belonging to one Gordon Walker down in the East Wing.

  
  
Apparently there’s a packet of Hershey’s kisses on the line for the upcoming race Friday, Dean’s bet a couple of his residue cigarettes from Cas on Brutus winning (not that he’s told Ash that). Still, watching the Master’s and PHD graduate on his hands and knees in the yard, trying to coax a cockroach into following a racetrack made of straws, was certainly enough to entertain Dean for an afternoon.

 

At the prospect of a gift Dean’s more picks up instantly, though he tries not to let on.

 

Clearing his throat, he steps into his cell with no more rush than usual, though his fingers are twitching by his sides and climbs up on his bunk, purposefully wiggling the bed as Benny kicks up against the bottom of his bunk to get him to quieten down.

 

“God I hope it’s pie,’ says Dean, catching sight of the actual gift wrapped box on his bed. It’s big enough for a pie- deep enough, with a big red bow that definitely does not make Dean’s heart flutter in his chest. “I’m freaking starved.”

 

He tears off the bow (but sets it aside softly on his pillow, it’s got a nice satiny sort of feel to it alright? Probably cost a couple of dollars on it’s own) and in lifting the lids, prepares himself for the deep, deep inhale of delicious pie (or maybe more of the Russian cake thing).

  
  
Instead, there’s panties.

 

“What is it?” Benny asks, the bed shifts a little

 

Dean places both hands in the box and just smushes his fingers into the collection of fine, almost sheer fabric. A soft baby blue, a rich deep red. Something that’s like pea green with emerald green frills, and another pair a simple, glorious beautiful pink.

 

“Nothing.” He says, flexing his fingers, rubbing the pink material between fore-finger and thumb. He doesn’t dare lift any of the four separate garments from the protection of the box, the prison air would _taint_ them.

 

Benny’s eyes and forehead peer up over the side of Dean’s bunk. He blinks big blue Cajun eyes and raises one brow at Dean. “I don’t want to know do I?”

 

“Nope.” Dean says, popping the ‘p’.

 

“Figures.” Benny says, and sinks back below to his own bunk.

 

“You should probably make yourself scarce man.” Dean tells him, already ridding himself of his shirt, hands digging into the waistband of his pants, pulling downward. “I gotta break these babies in.”

  
  
“Why can’t you be a woman?” Benny sighs from below, with just a smallest hint of real wishing in there.

  
  
“Why can’t you just grow a pair and suck a few cocks every once in a while?” Dean retaliates.

  
  
Benny has no good answer for him. He sighs and in getting up, takes his latest novel (that Dean had managed to sequester away before being shipped down to the laundry duty) _Lady Audley’s Secret,_ and heads on out to the yard.

 

Smiling to himself, Dean kicks off his pants and underwear and reaches out for the for Cas’ gift, with eager slightly shaking hands.

 

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

The next day (because internally Dean is such a tease) Dean joins Cas down in the laundry room, for the first time not missing his shtick at the library all that much.

 

“Hey Cas.” He greets, waltzing in, smile on his face.

 

One side of Cas’ mouth lifts up perceptually. “Hello Dean.” He greets in return.

 

Instead of coming to the other man, Dean stands off on the other side of the folding table between them, he rests his hands over his chest, crossed and cocks one eyebrow. “C’mere Cas.” He says.

 

Cas doesn’t even blink, just sets aside the orange jumpsuit he was folding (with meticulous, almost caring fingers) and crosses the room until he’s right up beside Dean.

  
  
Dean puts a hand on the mans chest, stopping him before they get to close. “Hold out your hands.”

 

Cas does so and Dean takes them in his own, saying; “Close your eyes.”

  
  
This time Cas hesitates. He casts Dean a questioning look. “Wh-”

 

  
“Close em.” Dean says again.

 

With an exaggerated stare for a full painful minute, Cas slips his eyelids closed.

 

With their hands still linked, Dean draws the other man forward, draws him close until they are chest to chest, it’s then that he sinks both their hands, Cas’ and his own down past the waistband of his pants putting each hand on either side of his hips, low enough so that Cas can feel the teasing of delicate lace panties there.

 

The reaction is instantaneous.

 

“ _Yebat_.” Cas swears, and when he tries to open his eyes Dean shushes him. When he tries to move his hands, Dean keeps them locked in place. “Dea-”

 

“You hear about Logan?” Dean asks without a beat.

 

Cas is silent for a second, his hands in Dean’s are shaking with the desire to just _feel_. “Logan?” he asks, his voice is barely above the sound of a single breath.

 

Dean smiles. Hook, line and sinker. “Peters, bald dude with a swastika burned into his cheek, goatee?” he flexes his fingers against Cas’ hands.  
  
  


Cas breathes out a noise that’s closer to a sigh, his eyelashes fluttering as he tries to keep them closed. “Yes.”

 

Dean suspected as much, his moves Cas’ hands off his ass (ignoring the faint grumbling that causes) and moves the other man's hands up to rest on his hips, the waistband of his pants cutting taught around Castiel’s fingers. “So you know what happened?” he asks cooly.

 

Cas’ fingers twitch, as though itching to touch, to grab. He does neither.

 

“Accident.”

 

Dean clicks his tongue mock sorrowfully. “Shame.”

 

He moves Cas’ hands to his stomach, pressing the _Avtoritet's_ palms down on the space just below his belly button, but not low enough to sink down over his crotch.

  
  
Cas swears in Russian and sways forward, mouth trying to find Dean’s-

 

Dean takes a step back and Castiel stills.

 

A rush of something a little bit like power, runs through Dean then. It’s almost as if, by simply holding Cas’ wrists and allowing himself to be touched he has completely control over the man in front of him. The thought of that is dizzying in itself, but the truth of Cas standing there in front of him, eyes still closed and hands not making a single move unless prompted by Dean first is strangely intoxicating.

 

It’s confusing, it’s terrifying because this is not how Dean operates, in life-yes, in the bedroom-no. But he figures the lines of bedroom and everyday life are so blurred between him and Cas that it’s no wonder somehow their wires got crossed along the way.

  
  
Fuck, Dean’s a little terrified.

 

“Yes,” Cas pants when he finally answers, playing along in such a way it makes it hard for Dean not to laugh. Eyes still closed, he swallows then speaks; “His wife Patricia will mourn him for the appropriate amount of time.”

 

That shouldn’t make Dean laugh but it does, and the sound of it travels deep within him, radiating out of his belly into Cas’ palms. The Russian sucks in a breath, says something deep and Russiany and looks just about ready to call this strange game of control chicken to quits and fucking take Dean right there with his eyes closed.

 

But this is a rare opportunity for Dean, Cas is talking, really talking, and he’s supple and his eyes are closed and fuck he looks almost human like this, lashes a delicate curve fluttering over the swells of his cheeks, shielding partly the eternal puffiness beneath his eyes.

 

Emboldened, Dean asks. “Look Cas, we both know you’ve got some sort of list you’re working through,” he expects Cas’ hands to tense against them and they do. Undeterred, Dean continues. “How many people are on it?”

 

The spell is broken. Cas’ eyes flick open. Cool blue chips of ice, watching Dean carefully. “Dean-”

 

“Tell me.” Dean says at the same time as he moved Cas’ hands down, down beneath his pants, forcing Cas closer to he can position each of the Russian’s hands back on his thighs, skirting his cock completely. “Please Cas.”  
  
  
“ _Dvadtsat' tri_.” gasps Cas, then “tw…twenty three,” in English.

  
  
It takes all of Dean’s willpower to keep any expression at that off his face and keep his hands, Cas’ hands, where they are. “Am I on there?” He asks, then clears his throat out of necessity. “Are any of my friends?”

  
“No.”

  
  
It’s the right answer. Dean takes one of Cas’ hands and slides it over his crotch, making the man feel him- fuck, feel his cock through the lacy pair of panties beneath his pants. “You lying to me Cas?” Dean puffs, a moan catching in his throat when Cas moves the slightest bit and cups him through the thin material.

 

  
All of a sudden, the touch on his cock is gone and Cas is reaching out and stroking his fingers over Dean’s cheek, barely brushing Dean’s lips with them. “No.” he recites and Dean thinks _fuck_.

 

Cas may not have any plans to kill him (yet), but he’s most definitely going to be the death of Dean Winchester.

 

But still the guy answered all his questions correctly (or at least as correctly as Dean was willing to view them.)

  
“Alright then.” says Dean, and he lets Cas’ remaining hand (still on his hip) go. He steps back and as he does so, pulls his shirt up and over his own head.  “Thanks for the gift Cas.” He says, shirtless, he starts on pulling down his pants.

 

Dean’s barely got the pants to his mid thigh before Cas is on him.

 

Cas’ touch is tentative, caressing the shape of Dean through his panties, as if he isn’t sure if Dean want’s to be touched there, but doesn’t have the words to ask. It’s completely at odds with his normal m.o, and honestly Dean wants him to get pushy again, so he sets his hand over Cas’ and guides him once more to press down firmly. The touch has Dean thickening immediately, and makes Cas breathless just as quick.

 

Dean’s wet, been seeping his whole time, and that seems to be just up Cas’ alley as he skims his fingertips over the mess Dean’s leaving in the lace, still warm and sticky and moans. The sound that works it’s way out of Dean’s throat is much the same as Cas touched the head of his cock through the fabric, one finger seeking out his cock head putting a barely-there pressure right against his slit.

 

“Mghh—”

 

“Sensitive,” Cas whispers. Dean fists his hands in Cas’ shirt instead of hitting him. Cas pulls back Dean’s foreskin, exposing him and purposeful drags the fabric over the sensitive flesh, rubbing them together. Dean bucks forward around a gasp and it is only then that Cas decides he wants to get to his (seemingly) favourite activity and ducks down on his knees.

 

Cas’ stubble prickles at the top band of Dean’s panties, then he kissed a trail on Dean’s stomach, following the trail of light hair down beneath.

 

Dean tilts his head back, neck stretching out, and rolls his hips, rubbing his hard dick against Castiel’s face.

 

Cas doesn’t mess around as per usual- but he does keep the panties on, simply working Dean out from the waistband, keeping the panties (now increasingly tight) holding Dean’s balls up between his thighs, the thin lacy back stretched over his ass.

 

Dean lets out a sound that is in no-fucking-way a yelp of excitement when simultaneously Cas takes him into his mouth whilst also working his fingers into the back of the panties, stretching the fabric even more so that they pull at Dean’s pubic hair from the front.

 

Cas touches Dean’s anus in a pressing circular fashion which makes Dean pant and grip his hair. His mouth does the same, tongue working Dean in a similar way pressing against his slit before swirling around his base. A pathetic noise makes its way out from deep in Dean’s throat and the tenseness around his balls is increased tenfold.

 

“Oh fuck, that’s good. Feels so good, Cas-”

 

In the heat of that moment Dean comes to the realisation that Cas is addictive. Fucker can’t keep his mouth or his hands or his _wooing_ to himself and Dean’s caught, caught like a fucking fly in a web, entranced beyond measure. He knows it’s bad, like shooting heroin or something of the like, but god he’s convinced doing drugs has never been this good.

 

He lets Cas take control because he likes it. Lets Cas guide him back against one of the nearest washers, wrap him up in his web and show Dean just how good it is to be eaten alive.

 

He doesn’t last long which should be one again embarrassing, but Dean’s in prison and he’s never gonna be able to go out and have a beer with his brother, never going to be able to go out to the beach and just stand barefooted in the surf, hell he’s never going to be able to work- really work with grease and oil and cars again; so all at once, given everything Dean doesn’t give a fuck if Cas riles him up so much he can barley contain it.

 

He comes quickly, toes curling, hips wriggling backwards onto Cas’ probing but not penetrating fingers, forwards into Cas’ warm mouth. All sorts of weird-ass, embarrassing as hell sounds that he’s _never made_  in the presence of another human being come out of him as he rides it out.

 

It’s in the aftermath of that that Dean seals his fate.

 

“Hey, uh,” he clears his throat, looking down at Cas who is sucking on the finger that was just swirling around Dean’s asshole, (unhygienic bastard). “Can I suck you off?”

 

Cas stares at Dean from around the finger in his mouth. He pulls it out with a slick _pop_ stands, and without saying a word, backs himself over to the folding tables, jumps up on top of it and spreads his thighs.

 

Dean drags over the single and nearby chair and settles between Cas’ legs. His hands are tingly. He undoes the tie about Cas’ pants, and Cas shifts up on his hands so Dean can can slide them and his underwear (prison, uniform white, decidedly unsexy) down over his thighs.

 

Cas’ cock is big, thick, and wet at the tip, his balls a heavy and low hanging sitting on the lip of the table. Arching up out of a thick thatch of hair, Cas’ cock is –oddly- exactly what one would think of when trying to picture a Russian Mafia Warlords cock, as intimidating and fucking deadly looking as the man it is attached to.

 

It’s a silly thought, but Dean has it anyway, and it takes everything in him not to laugh because hello, laughing at the moment of seeing another man’s cock for the first time is _not cool_.

 

Dean surges forward and kisses it, because he likes it and he can.

 

He  _can_  now.

 

Lips against the slick head, Dean closes his hand around Cas and begins stroking.

 

A hand settles on his cheek, and a thumb pushes at the closed seems of his lips, begging entrance until Dean’s parted his lips enough for Cas to sneakily exchange his thumb for his cock and slide into the wet heat (impatient little shit.) Cas’ breaths come in measured puffs above Dean, his fingers moving to fist into Dean’s hair much in the same way that Dean usually does to him. He thrusts up when Dean’s lips close around his cock head and start to suck.

 

Cas doesn’t taste half bad. Dean’s had some spunky dudes in his life time, even Aaron had a bit of a robust flavor to him, but Cas tastes nice- good even. Dean wants as much of him as possible in his mouth.

 

Since Cas is big, and it’s been a year since Dean’s done this, he couples his mouth with his hands and starts jerking Cas off, just sucking and kissing and licking whatever he can manage with his mouth.

 

Cas lets out a groan, “That feels so good, Dean. _Yebat._ ”

 

He strokes his hand over Dean’s sweaty forehead and, hell, that only makes Dean want to take a little more of him down so he does.

 

Dean can’t help it, he feels a sort of pride in being able to reduce people (both men and women) to nothing but a panting pile of human. He likes to make people feel good, likes being good at it.

 

And he is good at it, because a short (but not embarrassingly so) time later Cas is shooting off into his mouth with enough force as he pulls Dean’s hair that Dean gasps and coughs. Some of Cas’ come dribbles down onto his chin and damn Dean was kinda hoping to not come out of this needing to step under the spray.

 

“Enjoy that boss?” Dean asks, jaw a little achy, voice a little rough.

 

Cas grabs him by the back of his neck and pulls him up into a sloppy, come-flavored kiss.

 

Like a wave cresting Dean rolls into it and Cas must still be a little heated even just after coming because he growls into the smooches and grabs two large handfuls of Dean’s ass, wrapping his legs around Dean’s waist and grinding them together on top of the table.

 

“God.” Dean breaths into the scant space between them, his mind still foggy enough from his own orgasm to let a few unintentional words slip past his lips.  He ruts forward into Cas, keenly aware of just how vulnerable a position the Russian has put himself into. “I wanna fuck you in a bed, and then I want you to fuck _me_ in a bed.” He finds himself admitting.

 

Cas just replies by snagging Dean’s lower lip between his teeth. Hard. Hard enough that Dean bites back a yelp, able to taste the beginnings of copper.

 

 Cas leans forward and licks at the blooming wound on Dean’s lips. Licks the yelp out of his mouth, and sucks in order to draw out more blood.

 

He draws back with a shit eating grin. “That can be arranged,” he says, red lipped.

 

Dean thinks _fuck_ again.

 

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

The rattling of keys at his cell door is almost enough to rouse Dean from sleep. Even if it wasn’t the gruff voice on the other side of the cell door is enough alone.

 

“Winchester, get your perky ass up!”

 

Dean rolls off of his stomach and rubs at his eyes. “Mmm?” he says. The bunk shifts beneath him, signalling Benny waking also.

 

Bobby stands in the doorway to his cell, the keys hooked back onto his belt, his face locked in inherent stoicism. “You’re moving out boy,” he explains, “Grab your shit.” He leaves to stand just past the open door, giving Dean a moment to wake up and collect his stuff.

 

 _Moving out._ Dean sucks in a breath and though he’s surprised, a part of him scolds him for doubting Cas’ ability to swing things his way.

 

If he even has control over the cell arrangements, fuck what can’t the damn man do?

 

“Dean?” Benny asks and Dean’s heart sinks.

 

Fuck.  
  
  
“Look Benny-”

 

“If you don’t want this to happen just say the word.” Benny’s voice is stern, but calm. He’s the friggen embodiment of calm, the kind of calm that accompanies someone doing something crazy because they think it’s the right thing to do.

 

Dean blinks, and then he laughs.

 

 _As if_ Benny Laffiette could do anything to stop this.

  
_As_ _if_ Dean _wanted_ him to.

 

“Ben, it’s okay.” He explains calmly, when Benny looks at him like he’s insane. “Cas- Cas won’t hurt me.”

  
  
Benny looks about as sceptical as one person can at ass-o-clock in the morning. “You know that Romano’s gone missing right? And Ferdanaze’s ear was found in the Electrical shop?”

 

And yeah Dean’s noticed that. Three more guys have kicked the bucket in ‘mysterious and violent circumstances’ in the last three days and no ones doing a damn thing about it.

 

If Dean had any suspicions before about the prison being in cahoots with Cas and his lot, or at least not stupid enough to get in the way between the man and his business those assumptions had all been blown out of the water already.

 

Fuck Dean wasn’t even sure what number Cas was up to now on his list, how many left he still had to go. Dean guessed not many.

 

“He won’t hurt me.” Dean repeats, he jumps down off his bunk and claps Benny on the shoulder, meeting the mans eyes as he tilts his chin down. “Ben.” He says, “trust me.”

 

Benny claps his shoulder in return but his mouth is still downturned. “I hope you’re doing the right thing Winchester.” He says.

  
  
Dean gives him a coy smile, climbs back on up his bunk and starts gathering up his few meagre (and mostly contraband) possessions up in his pillowcase to take with him. “Doing the right thing, why Benny,” he smirks at Benny over his shoulder, kneeling down on his bed as he stuffs a series of panties, five pairs now, in amongst his belongings. “That’s how I got here in the first place.”

 

Escorted down the hall with Bobby Dean’s stopped in front of Cas’ cell a little further on the west side of the prison. Bobby reached out and knocks (actually knocks) and when he receives no rebuff, he fiddles with his keys, unlocking the door and ushering Dean inside with a quiet ‘good luck’ and an somewhat affectionate ‘you idgit.’

 

There, in the room Cas is the sole occupant, his cell isn’t impressive, hell it isn’t

 

But it’s private and fuck, Dean will take what he can get.

 

“Heya Cas.” Dean says, dropping his pillowcase by the door, he comes towards Cas on the bottom bunk, only a little bit nervous.

 

“Hello Dean,” answers Cas, drawing Dean in.

 

With his lips pressed against the Russian’s, Dean smiles.

 

 

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

Prison domesticity is… it’s bullshit basically. You’re still in prison, still locked up, captive, a slave.

 

But rooming with Cas is nice and it’s the closest thing to domesticity that Dean’s had in years. Dean’s not ashamed to admit that they spend most of their limited free time in the privacy of Cas’ cell in those first few days. And from that simple being together, they actually start to be together.

 

One afternoon, Dean’s resting his head on Cas’ lap as the man reads. He’s just starting the Deathly Hallows now and normally Dean would be impressed by Cas’ speed but he gets sometimes Cas skips things over, pages or chapters that have too many words he doesn’t know yet in them, bookmarked with little scraps of paper.

 

  
To be honest, there’s not that many of them. Dean shifts his eyes to the small pile stacked by the end of the bottom bunk, and with each subsequent book there’s less and less places where Cas needs clarification.

 

  
God Dean wished he had the whole set, determined that his shitty crash course in the first three books and the general plot of the series before Cas started reading what few they did have available was a pretty shitty way to get into Harry Potter.

  
  
Cas doesn’t seem to mind though he’s picked up on the story, it’s plot and characters quite well, with only a few conversations with Dean to fill in the gaps and figure out the world building.

 

Its there, when Dean’s just contemplating maybe turning his head and mouthing at Cas through his pants, that Cas speaks.

 

“Hufflepuff.”

 

“What?” Dean asks, lifting his head slightly from here he was nosing at the inseam of Cas’ thigh. “That your safe word Cas?”

 

Cas levels him with a stare over the cover of his book.

 

Dean smirks.

 

“My house, my colors.” Cas explains patiently. He taps the cover of the book with one finger. “Were I to attend Hog-wharts, Hufflepuff.”

 

Dean’s smile shifts into something softer that he’d like to get rid of immediately but can’t seem to find the strength to. “You’d be a Hufflepuff?” he asks.

 

Cas nods, determined.

 

Dean wets his lower lip and tucks his arms up underneath his chest, resting his chin on Cas’ knee. “Yeah man I can see that.” He nods thoughtfully, then grins. “You as a scraggly little mini-bear.”

 

Cas frowns. “Badgers can be ferocious.”

 

“course they can.” Dean smirks. “Anyway there’s all sorts of things on the internet for figuring out that shit, your Hogwarts house, probably bout as popular as Google itself.”

 

“Which house would you be Dean?”

 

The question, understandably, catches Dean off guard. “Me?” he asks and Cas’ gaze remains resolute. “Never given it that much thought.” Dean lies.

 

Cas is a fucker and knows that he’s lying. He sets his book aside and waits.

 

Eventually, Dean caves, giving into the conversation. “My brother Sam,” he begins, eyes on the thin blanket beneath them. “Dude’s about as smart as they come, I remember when we were reading the books together for the first time, he was just so torn up about his house y’know? It was ridiculous.” Dean catches himself smiling and has to talk himself out of schooling his expression into something harder. It would be too much of a tell. “He was so cut up, Ravenclaw or Gryffindor, Ravenclaw or Gryffindor. Smarts or Bravery.”

 

“Which did he choose?”

 

“Dunno.” Dean shrugs. He rolls onto his back, shifting his head off of Cas and resting it on the bed. The little bit of space helps, but Cas shifts over till his thigh is pressed against the top of Dean’s head. Letting it go, Dean continues; “Guess he grew out of it all. Ravenclaw I think Sam is a wiz at college. He’s studying law you know?” Cas’ nose crinkles and Dean laughs, “Yeah- like I haven’t gotten that look before.”

 

“That is very… worthy. I suppose.” Says Cas demurely.

 

Dean rolls his eyes but lets it go. “Kids gonna make a great lawyer. Have a whole house full of babies.”

 

Dean’s mood sinks a little at that, and the happy-go-lucky feeling of the day dims.

 

“And you?” Cas persists after a moment in which returning to the previous conversation is socially awkward. “Which house are you Dean?”

 

Thinking about Sam, about his life, about his future babies, Dean rolls onto his side and faces the brick wall. “Slytherin,” He says. It takes a little while, but eventually Cas’ hands sneak over and thread in Dean’s hair, rubbing small, relaxing patterns into his scalp. Dean closes his eyes, and curls his hands around his stomach. “I’d be Slytherin.”

 

◇ ◇ ◇

  
“And Reznikov…” says the man, beans slipping out from between his lips to plop down onto the table. “Fucking good riddance if you ask me.” The words are said with a scathing look in Dean’s direction.

 

Dean barely notices.

 

Cas, leaving.

  
  
Dean feels his chest constricting, suddenly he can’t get any air.

 

Benny’s arm goes to touch him but Dean shrugs it off rising.

  
  
Cas, he needs to find Cas.

 

Cas is in their cell he’s on the last chapter and Dean knows from having him reading up right until the lights go out that he’s eager to get it finished.

 

Maybe he knew that he was leaving.

 

“Cas-” Dean says stumbling into the room, his heart beating a sattico in his chest. “Did you-”

 

“I heard.” Cas says, eyes resolute on his page. He doesn’t even gift Dean with a glance just keeps on talking. “My business here is done. I’m expected to be moving on- Maykl insists on remaining on schedule.”

 

“Michael?” Dean gasps, dropping down onto the bed beside him, though everything in him is begging to be moving, to be pacing. “Who the fuck is Michael?”

  
  
“Maykl, is _Krestnii Otets_ , _Pakhan_.” Cas says, and only then looks up from his book, his face unreadable. “He is my boss, you would say.”

  
“Shit.”

 

“Dean,” Cas takes a breath and reaches out on hand, stilling Dean’s own that was beating out a nervous rhythm against his thigh. “Come with me.”

 

For a second Dean just breathes. “Cas-”

 

“I could get you moved onto the list,” Cas explains, his words coming out fast, an uncharacteristic betrayal of how he’s feeling. “Maykl has connections.”

 

“I can’t.” Dean says, and it’s only as the words escape him that he realises how true that is. “I’ve got, I’ve got my brother here, Sam- kids kinda the whole reason I’m in the joint. I can’t leave him- I’ve gotta stay here.”

 

 Cas’ expression hardens, but he doesn’t let go of Dean’s hand. “Sam cast you in jail?”

 

Dean shakes his head. “No, I, he has- _had_ this girlfriend, Jess, and and she was great you know, totally out of his league, smart funny, God she-” Dean’s throat threatens to close around the words, and for a moment Dean can’t see himself doing it, can’t see himself talking about Jess like this- as though she’s _gone._ “She was practically my sister, man. Sammy was dead set on marrying her, had a ring and everything, but… She was attacked coming home one night from work, she was a hundred meters away from their apartment when she was-”

 

_Raped._

 

“And they did nothing,” Dean continues on, aware of how damn hard he’s squeezing Cas’ hand because the skin in his grip is turning white. “The cops the police nothing, after she was hurt, after she was in fucking hospital. We only found out then that it was was three guys- three assholes fucking _raped_ my little sister, my brother’s fiancé and no one did anything to help her.”

 

“So you hunted them,” Cas finishes for him, voice soft like silk that Dean just wants to lose himself in, maybe parade around and jerk off in a little. “The three men who raped your brothers _obruchena_?”

 

Dean’s answering laugh is something that is brittle and too sharp to pick up. “Well, I wasn’t gonna let Sammy do it.”

 

“Jessica.” Cas says, voice soft and alluring. “What happened to her?”

 

Though Dean’s heart clinches in his chest, the real kicker is that the words escape him far easier than any of the ones that came before. “She died. After it- three guys man they just tore her apart, the whole thing tore her apart, from the inside.”

 

Dean’s aware, faintly, of Cas’ thumb rubbing circles on the back of his hand. He’s faintly aware of  himself shaking. “Fifty to life for what I did to them for killing her and you know what? I’d do it again.” He looks up, looks up at Cas and stares him down dead set in the eye. “I’d do anything for my family.”

 

Dean doesn’t know how that last thing he said translates into some sort of aphrodisiac, but it does. Cas surges forward and for a blissful few hours Dean loses himself in touches.

 

He lets Cas tongue and finger-fuck him open.

 

He lets Cas slip inside him, and fuck him on all fours, because that’s what Dean feels he needs right now. He needs their bodies closer together, needs Cas around him, taking him away from the pain and the memories and the potential of a future without by literally anchoring him in the moment with his cock and mouth.

 

It’s in that aftermath, when they both of them are pleasantly mind-numb and too fucked out to give a shit about the drying come and sweat that Cas speaks.

 

“I want to stay with you.”  He says, then speaks in Russian once more before switching back, voice equally rough in both languages. “ _Ya lyublyu tebya_. I want to stay with you Dean.”

 

“I want you to stay too.” Says Dean.

 

And that seems to be enough to make it happen. Cos Cas can make _anything_ happen.

 

The next morning, Phillips is on the transfer list and Castiel is sitting back down at the guys table, his hand on Dean’s thigh rubbing soft circles.  


  
Dean eats his breakfast slowly, savouring the moment.

 

◇ ◇ ◇

 

The peace lasts four days.

 

“Winchester, you’ve got a call.”

 

It’s odd to begin with, Dean’s phone call with Sam isn’t till Monday, and it isn’t Monday and there’s no one else in the fucking world who wants to have anything to do with Dean Winchester.

 

Dean glances away from where he's watching Kevin trying to teach Cas who to properly get spaghetti onto his fork but twisting it around in the pasta when the CO approaches.

 

"I’ll be in the cell" because for some reason he only ever hangs out with Benny and Ash, Shurley and Kevin when Dean is there, but whatever; Cas’ prerogative, weird little loner foreigner.

 

Dean picks up the phone when it’s handed to him by the guard, Jackson, or Jake or some other J name. He pulls the corded phone to his ear and says down the line, “hello?”

 

“Hey Dean,” says Sarah Blake, the shitty phone making her voice sound hallow, distant.

 

“Sarah?” Dean smiles, because Sarah is a part of Sammy and Sammy is everything so she gets a pass. “Hey it’s not Monday yet-”

 

“Dean, something’s happened.”

 

And the world drops out from beneath Dean’s feet.

 

“Sam’s in hospital, there was- some guys were trying to get inside his dorm room, I was- I was at Amelia’s-”

 

Dean feels a tight sensation prickling along his skin, painful like someone was scratching him too deep right to the bones. Be he can’t do anything, can’t do anything except for listen to what Sarah has to say, listen to her crying. Sam is in the ICU, it’s bad, bad enough that she’s called her boyfriends brother in prison, bad enough that she feels she needs to call at all.

 

Dean listens in silence, hangs up when she’s done in silence. He feels nothing, nothing but the sharp sting of betrayal that burns his tongue, stuttering off all words. He’d been like this after his mom died, unable to speak, unable to properly feel. But this, this is Sammy, this is Dean’s responsibility. His fault.

 

Cas fucking betrayed him.

 

Dean’s surprised at how blistering the rage burning within him feels, and how fiercely pain claws at his chest cavity carving a new hole. It’s hell, god is it hell but it’s all kinds of liberating just to  _let go_.

 

 

◇ ◇ ◇

  
Cas is sitting on the bottom bunk, waiting for Dean with a tray beside him, when Dean enters. “You missed your mid-day meal.” He says, not yet catching Dean’s expression- for how could he? There’s no expression there, no anything. Everything Dean feels, everything he is in that moment is below the surface, boiling.

 

Cas slips off the crinkled tinfoil, waves his hand over the dish a bit and looks up to Dean in a way that’s as close to apologetic as he can get. “It’s meatloaf, but-” he dips one finger in the mashed-potato and steals a bite. “Garth in the kitchen assures me that it is not really meat.”

 

Dean doesn’t say anything, he enters the room, shuts the cell door behind him and ignoring Cas, ignoring the food, leans back against the opposite wall, staring down at the floor.

 

“Heard about Sammy?” he asks.

 

“Sammy? Who-”

 

Dean stares at the stone floor of his cell, imagining he can see the hundreds and thousands of tiny minerals that make up the stones structure. Imagines himself breaking them.

 

The words when they come out of him, are wet, croaky. “My brother?”

 

Cas sucks in a breath, and the break in his usual cool is just enough leverage to have Dean pouncing. With the same scrappy street strength that he used to beat off men when he first came to the joint, -with the same raw powerful anger that he had when he beat Brady Johnson, Frederic Azazel and Duanne Tanner into bloody lumps of piss and blood, stone cold and dead left in their apartments, in their houses, in a back alley behind a pub- Dean grabs Cas, jerks him forward and slams him up against the wall.

 

“Did you do it? Did you put my brother in the fucking hospital?”

 

Cas’ mouth drops open whether because of what Dean’s said or what he’s doing, Dean doesn’t know. Doesn’t care. He slams Cas back against the wall with all his force ready to ask again when Cas speaks.

  
  
“Sam is-”

 

“Yeah. Hospital. And apparently it’s bad. Like beyond the experience of _fucking muggers_ bad.”

 

Hands on his wrists, hands on his skin. Cas is touching Dean and Dean’s nostrils flare. A part of him, currently buried deep, acknowledges the fact that if Cas felt as though he was in any real danger, he could beat Dean into a bloody pulp so easily and hang him out to dry, if he wanted to.

 

Cas’ voice breaks through the fog.

 

“Dean,” he says, deep and sincere. “I had nothing to do with this.”

 

Dean turns away from him in disgust, letting Cas go. He doesn’t want to touch him, doesn’t even want to fucking look at the man anymore. “Really? So the timing just matches up, the fact that robbers came in, practically beat my brothers face in then left taking nothing?“ he grinds his nails into his palm, hoping almost chasing the blood. “Sorry to say Castiel, but in my experience, fucking up the people who get in your way doesn’t really go against your M.O.”  
  


“Dean-I would never hurt you.”

 

Dean flinches away when Cas tries to make contact.

  
“Don’t- Don’t touch me.” he says, and it comes out pitifully. He hates himself, hates so intensely, that he turns on Cas, voice rising to almost a scream. “Fucking Christ, I didn’t let you fuck me just for you to screw me over!”

 

Castiel stares at him incredulously, it’s the first time in this whole interaction so far that a bit of the Cas from before, before this, before them, peeks through. He growls. “You  _let_ me?”

 

“Yes! Hello, my name’s Dean Winchester I like long walks on the beach, frisky women and manipulating people to get what I want using my fucking ass okay? How else was I able to fucking keep you and every other two bit harry from fucking murdering me in my sleep once you’re done raping me? Well, fuck the Russian asshole who’s pretending to be something other than a fucking android and who scares the shit out of everyone sure as hell does the trick!”

 

Dean hears the last of his words spoken but that is all that he is able to register before Cas’ fist is in his face and he’s being smashed back up against the wall. His face connects sharply with the rough stone, his whole body pinned by Cas’ hands and hips.

 

Dean bucks out, tries to push Cas away but Cas is all muscle, all strength and he’s not budging an inch.

 

Dean feels blood running down his face from his nose. Fuck, Cas socked him good. “Get off me you fucking psycho!”

 

Castiel doesn’t move. Just leans in so their cheek to cheek, Cas’ breath hot on his face, so close their noses would be touching if it wasn’t for the angle.

 

Cas’ eyes are cold, ruthless and it serves Dean as a reminder of just who it is he’s dealing with, just who it is that’s broken him. Dean considers it somewhat of a worry that if Cas hadn’t set guys to take a hit out on Sam he’d probably be letting the Mafia Captain fuck him against this wall, but as it is; his fury outweighs his libido.

 

Cas doesn’t fuck him, though he’s in the prime position to do so. He does nothing but keep Dean pinned against the wall, breathing hot words against his skin. “I never have and never will cause harm to your brother,” and then he says, in a very American fashion. “Give me some fucking credit Dean.”

 

Dean hates himself. Hates Cas. His dick gives an interested twitch. It’s wrong on so many levels; Castiel is insane, he’s a murderer (at least more so than Dean) with a hit count almost as high as he other crimes, goodness knows what the hell all those are.

 

Cas’ proximity is torture, and by the looks of it Cas feels the same, his blue eyes swallowed up by pupil. It gives Dean a little bit of power in this situation, but not enough to do anything with when Cas has him pinned.

 

Dean's already half-way hard; Cas’ forceful actions giving his libido one hell of a jump start, he uses it to his advantage.

 

He does what he does best, he manages to buck Cas off enough to turn around, and crushes his mouth against Cas' clumsily, missing and scraping his teeth along Cas' jaw. He could bite down and end it all now, but Cas is grabbing fistfuls of his hair and dragging Dean up into a furious kiss that lacks any of his usual cool control.

 

Dean doesn’t protest, just lets out a small whimper. Within seconds is mind whites over with a litany of Cas Cas _Cas Cas_ , and he's throwing himself into the kiss. Throwing every move and play he has into it. Before their tongues can really meet Cas pulls back. 

 

“I would never hurt you- hurt your family.” he repeats again, eyes just a thin rim of blue. “Mykal must have-”

 

“Mykal-” repeats Dean numbly.

 

Cas looks at him like he’s a fucking idiot. A lovable, and fuckable idiot. “A persuasion of this nature is not below his character.” He says steadily. He lets Dean go and wipes a hand up over his face, eyes cast to the ground. “I explained to him how I could not move on to the next location.”

 

And when it clicks, boy does it click. “Your fucking boss,” Dean says, “You told your fucken Mob-boss _about my brother_?”

 

“But Sam is alive? He is alive yes? So Mykal was just sending a message.”  
  


“And that is supposed to make me feel any better? My brother’s in the freaking hospital, my brother that _you_ told him about-”

 

Dean’s mind blanks before filling up, overspilling with all the possible ways Mykal can make Cas obey- using Dean. Using his family. “What if he goes after Sarah? What if he-”

 

And he sees her, he sees Jess lying there in the hospital bed, tear track down her face, refusing to eat, refusing to talk.  She’s beat to hell and although she’s been cleaned by the nurses and tended to by the doctors, her face is still bloody, her eyes already dimmed.

 

Dean doesn’t realise he’s crying until he collapses down on the bed, almost missing it and sliding off, but arms catch him and drag him up onto it. “Fuck, fuck fuck fuck- Cas.”

 

An incredibly tight feeling pervades Dean’s chest, sending a pulse of adrenaline through his bloodstream, Dean straightens, and tries with all his might to breath through it.

 

Except he can’t.

 

The tightness is a weight.

 

It stops

 

Dean

 

in his tracks.

 

He can’t

 

take

 

a full

 

breath.

 

A cold sweats drenches over him, somewhere in the distance is a voice speaking

 

He can’t-

 

He can’t-

 

Pain, bright lightning strikes of it

 

Up and down his arms

 

Forking out from his chest

 

This is a heart attack.

 

Dean is having a heart attack.

 

Dean’s panicked pants have turned into crys.

 

Dean weeps, no he sobs, big fucking ugly tears that streak down his face and dribble over his lips. They choke him, fuck he can’t take any air in and he collapses, curling up, half on Cas, half on the bed and he’s pretty sure he’s shaking so hard he’s gonna fall apart, but that’s nothing compared to the pain.  


  
His fury hasn’t shifted it’s still there, but it’s leaking out of him now in anyway it can, causing Dean to sob so much his long healed wound from Alastair and his cronies begins to ache.

_Sam. Sam. Sam. Sam._

Dean’s not sure how long it takes him to fall apart. But when the last of his sobs subside, he finds he can breath a little more evenly.

 

It takes a little longer still for him to be able to take a deep breath. Cas counts him through it with soft Russian. Gentle, patient touches.

 

Dean takes his second, deeper breath.

 

The world is in sudden sharp clarity, as though all the intensity of it is turned up to eleven, the universe's volume on full.

 

 “Dean.”

 

The one word from Cas that says a hundred things.

 

Still trembling, Dean unfolds and wipes at his tears with his sleeve. Resolution sets in, hard like stone, cold like ice.

 

He knows what he needs.

 

“Kill him,” says a voice that sounds a little bit like Dean but mostly not. “I-I- he comes after my family, puts my baby brother in hospital.” Dean doesn’t go on until the tears stop, doesn’t open his mouth and say the name that will determine once and for all what this- between them-is.

 

“Mykal Reznikov. I want his head on the ground at my feet.” Dean hears himself say, the words twisting something inside of him, something once good. But it feels right when he says them, right when Cas kneels, getting on his knees beside the bed to fit between Dean’s thigh, placing both hands on Dean’s chest to keep him from toppling over.

 

“I want Mykal dead.” Dean surmises, the tears are all but a memory now, a different Dean a different life. His rage had morphed into anguish and now, it luxuriates in something darker, deeper than anything he's known before. Even with Jess.

 

Dean, wipes his hand over his face, under his nose, clears the lingering traces of his emotions. He looks at Cas then adds “And I want to be the fuck out of this prison.”

 

Two simple requests.

 

Simple; because Cas can do _anything_.

 

Requests; because he would do that anything _for Dean_.

 

Cas places his first promise against Dean’s hand, a kiss. Closed lips and gentle, more of a caress than a kiss really.

 

The second promise he places against Dean’s soft stomach. Kneeling there, he leans forward, and gently rests his forehead to Dean’s belly, eyes closed, head bowed.

 

Like a dog with it’s head in its master’s lap.

 

Numbly, Dean lifts one hand and places it in Castiel's hair. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shittly Translated Russian:
> 
> Blyad- Shit
> 
> Vy nevynosimy- You’re insufferable
> 
> Eto- this
> 
> Yebat- fuck
> 
> Avtoritet- Authority/Captain in charge of a 'unit' in the Russian Mafia
> 
> Dvadtsat' tri- twenty three
> 
> Pakhan/Krestnii Otets- the Boss ‘Godfather’ in the Russian Mafia
> 
> Obruchena- Betrothed
> 
> Ya lyublyu tebya- I love you.
> 
>  
> 
> **If you enjoyed this, I highly encourage you to let me know, comments and Kudos keep me writing these damn things. Despite the fact that in doing so I'm ignoring writing I actually get paid to do. ******


	5. Ebony Black: Requested Timestamp

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Though I consider this 'story' complete, Reaperlove77 requested off me a ficlet giving you a guys all a glimpse of where these characters headed.
> 
> There has been a LOT of strife getting this written up, I was going to post sooner, but my computer just randomly decided to delete everything of this and several other documents in a juvenile fit of technological revenge. Needless to say that was somewhat demoralising.
> 
> So anyway, this is what I managed to piece together from the lost work, again apologies for the amalgamation of appalling Russian; I really cbf-ed translating it all the other way again so I just used... *shudder* Google Translate.
> 
> Forgive me.

_“Break it up, break it up.”_

 

The words come muffled through the blue tarpaulin body bag, barley heard. Dean’s aware of being wheeled but he isn’t sure through where. B wing? H?

 

It shouldn’t matter really; a way out is a way out. The death of an inmate is a rare thing; it’s only happened the once that Dean’s been in the joint. Suicide. The guy had hung himself with a power cord in one of the utility closets, he hadn’t been found until he didn’t turn up to work duty. More then half the prison loitered in the hallways, watching as his body was wheeled out, encased in a thick blue bag, strapped down on to a metal table; the final death march of the forgotten.

 

Dean wonders if Benny is watching his corpse being escorted out now, the thought hits Dean like a punch and if he could feel anything, he’s sure he’d feel sick.

 

He sends out a thought to him, one half apology, one half promise. He’ll get in contact in some manner, let him know that he’s okay, maybe break him out to if the righteous do-gooder’s willing- Cas’ll do it, after all he concocted this master plan.

 

A master plan which involved Dean getting fucking strangled, drugged and wheeled out of his – as much as he hates to admit it- home for the last three years, like a wheelie cart full of sweets.

 

Pretend dead, utterly paralysed sweets.

 

Dean always knew Castiel Reznikov would be the death of him.

 

There’s talking about him, but silence inside the ambulance when he’s finally loaded in is almost more unsettling. Dean’s afraid the attendants will hear him breath, but he’s barely breathing to begin with which is as claustrophobic as it sounds.

 

The trip to the morgue passes in a haze of near unconsciousness, a couple times Dean prays for unconsciousness, he’s sweating, sweating so profusely he’s afraid he’s gonna drown in it.

 

Fuck- what the hell did Cas give him?

 

When he’s next really aware of anything he’s alone.

 

Slowly some movement returns to his limbs and that’s when the aching sets in, a deep sinew tearing ache that seizes Dean’s muscles enough to make him gasp out loud, if he was even capable of such a thing. He wants to flail, wants to kick and scream and thrash, even if he’s heard at least he won’t suffocate in here alone.

 

Cas isn’t coming back for him.

 

It’s hard to think, fuzzy… there’s not a lot of circulation in the bag, the shit’s airtight and almost closed up entirely, but there’s just enough for Dean to still struggle to breathe, something that must have been Cas’ doing. Must have been because Cas doesn’t want Dean _actually_ dead. It hurts, Dean aches but it’s a phantom cos there’s nothing there- feels as though there’s nothing there. Fuck it’s like Dean’s just a head, floating about in his own bodies humidity.

 

It’s so hot, and Dean’s practically dripping- melting-

 

It’s almost over an hour later when he hears something outside the black.

 

There’s a pressure on him, something that feels like it could be hands.

 

The straps along Dean’s prone body are undone, the black body bag is unzipped along it’s side and untucked-

 

Dean gasps rolling onto his side taking deep cheese-grater breathes, which tear his throat out and smush all his soft insides up into his mouth.

 

Dean’s only thinly aware dragged up into a sitting position and arms wrap around him, rubbing at his back.

 

“F-f-f-”

 

“Breathe Dean,” says Cas, a hand smoothing over Dean’s sweaty forehead, pushing back his hair.

 

Dean gags, nothing comes up, but he gags and spits over the side of the table. He’s aware of Cas shifting, climbing up onto the table beside Dean, holding him close. “C-Cas-” Dean manages; god why does he ache so much. “F-fuck.”

 

“Be still.” The feel of lips against the top of his head doesn’t necessarily help but Dean dimly realizes it’s with tenderness and that has somewhat of an affect. A rush of emotion Dean’s not equip to process like an actual human being floods him, of course it’s kinda overcome by the general shittiness but it was there, and even when Dean spits up it’s there and it only gets worse when Cas goes back to rubbing his back, his voice calm but commanding. “You need to breathe. Dean. Slow. Steady.”

It takes a bit for Dean’s body to figure out how to function. The light even hurts when he looks off to the side of it, but soon his body stops flipping the fuck out and his mind calms, at least enough for him to bring a shaky hand to the back of his mouth and wipe.

 

“God… I-I _fuck.”_

 

“Your body is working through it, relax. Breathe.”

 

Dean groans and rests his forehead down on something that’s probably a shoulder. He tells himself to man up, but fuck who ever knows how long he's been in that bag is taking him through the wringer. But he’s out, fuck Cas came back for him. 

 

And now that the can function, his real concerns come to the forefront. “Sammy?”

 

It’s enough for Cas to get what he means.

 

Cas’ hand on Dean slows, and Dean recognises the slightest hardening of his voice indicative of him talking business. “Taken into possession by my people. He is safe. As is his partner.”

 

“God, I-” Dean’s tired and nauseated, but Cas’ hands always feel good on him and the reality of Sam and Sarah being safe takes a weight off his shoulder that he hadn't truly grasped was there. Safe, but with...well... Cas' people. “Your people?”

 

“ _Da_. His people,” come the words of another voice across the room.  

 

Dean’s a fucking idiot. 

 

There’s another man in the room with them. He’s smaller than Dean, smaller than Cas, but fuck somehow he looks even more dangerous. He’s all sharp points and lithe lines, looking (oddly) more the part of Mafia BAMF than Cas, despite his short stature, normal clothes and golden brown hair.  

 

“ _On milovidnyy_ _Avtoritet,”_ he says to Cas, and if at all possible he’s smirking as he says it, looking Dean over. When he catches Dean watching him, he arches one brow, eyes sliding oil slick back to Cas. “ _Molodoy_.”

The hand on Dean’s back stills. It takes all of Dean to not react when Cas move his hand off him entirely, “Da.” He says. he doesn’t look at the guy as he speaks, he’s looking at Dean, watching him, the crinkles by the corners of his eyes ones of concern.

 

“Can you drink?” he asks Dean, which is when Dean notices the bottle of water beside Cas’ thigh.

 

Eyeing the guy, Dean pulls himself up to a sitting position, he takes the bottle before Cas can hand it to him, spits once more, then swigs as much as he can until his eyes start to water.

 

“ _Eto kto-to , kto vdokhnovil vas , chtoby brosit' vyzov pravilo Mykal,_ ”  says the nameless man- okay who the fuck is he? 

 

A silence stretches out after and is only broken by Cas’ growl. He turns, looking from Dean to the man by the door, eyes chips of grey flint in the low light. “ _Lyuboye oskorbleniye k Dean_ takzhe _oskorbleniye dlya menya_.” Cas answers, gazing pointedly.  

 

The man barely flinches, in fact the the fucker actually smirks, one corner of his mouth kicking up. Cas’ words, unknowable to Dean, hang in the air a long moment when he says; “You would do well to remember that, Loki.”

Dean blinks, turns around and looks at the man. “ _Loki_?”

 

The man looks to Dean with his chin tilted down, arms over his chest, the suggestion of a smile or a laugh on his lips. His accent is not at thick as Cas’ Dean notices, and his English comes out smoother. “Names are powerful kiddo, do you honestly think we would give them out so frivolously?”

 

There’s a part of that that catches at Dean, tugging him. He settles his water bottle down on the table, but doesn’t let it do. His fingers crunch hard into the plastic. “Your names _not_ Castiel?” he asks.

 

Cas’ lips purse, he looks at neither Dean nor Loki but rather somewhere off between the two of them. The interlude is short, it has to be- Cas closes off his emotions so fast it’s any wonder doesn’t shut down entirely.

 

“We’re not discussing this. Not now.” He tells Dean, tells him as though he’s a child.

 

And though the tone sends a shiver down Dean’s spine (which is finally starting to feel normal again thank fucking god) still there’s enough residue from whatever the fuck it is that made him appear dead, and enough in the idea of him not even know Cas’ real fucking name- that it keeps him from acting on it. “ _Vse gotovo_?”

 

The amusement from Loki’s face slides away like snow off a slanted roof. He gives a small nod and speaks with a rolled tongue switching between English and Russian almost seamlessly. “ _Da,_   _Avtoritet,_ but we need to move.”

 

Cas nods, swinging his legs down off the table he slides off and onto the ground. Dean jolts a little at the sudden loss of contact, of support he tells himself, he’s still a little weak, trying to grab his baring’s. 

 

Cas seems to sense some part of this for he draws in close, slips between Dean’s parted legs easily, constricting the blue body bag a little around him. It makes a crinkly sound not at all that comforting.

 

“Dean,” he asks lowly, voice like the good deep scratch of stubble burn on the inside of your thighs. “Can you stand?” 

 

Momentarily distracted Dean blinks. “Stand?” 

 

“We have a car waiting for us.” Cas elaborates. “If you can stand, do so.” 

 

It’s at the word car that Dean is reminded of Baby, _his Baby_. God, her sleek chrome- fucking leather, her purr. He could probably go see her now, Sam’s assured Dean time and time again over the years that she’s fine and he’s got her in storage (which if far better than having her sold off or in parts).  Holy shit, Dean’s out. Like out out as in getting into a car and driving is an actual thing he can do now. Walking out of this room is within the realm of possibility- fuck, it’s practically easy. 

 

The whole room just gets so fucking big.  

 

“A car,” Dean says mindlessly. “Shit _a car_.” 

 

“ _On nenormal'nyy_?” asks Loki from the doorway. He says it in such a way that Dean knows it’s about him. Part of him wants to flip the Russian off but even from here he can see the slight bulge on the mans side that indicates a weapon, several probably what with the baggy clothes he’s wearing (more like janitor off duty than crime lord associate). There’s a hand to the back of Dean’s neck, cupping him, drawing his attention.

 

“Dean.” Cas’ thumb strokes over Dean’s skin and it’s like a fire starter, just lighting him up. Dean’s not a prisoner anymore. Dean catches the hand and drags it into his lap, he spreads Cas’ fingers out, a little surprised the other man is so malleable, and presses Cas hand down against his already thickening dick.

 

“Cas, I haven’t been out of that fucking place in three years.” The words don’t even make much sense coming out of Dean’s mouth, and the press of Cas’ fingers flexing against his shaft.

 

“I’m out.” Dean says, he leans in close to Cas, gets a little dizzy but covers himself as he presses against Cas, moving Cas’ hand with his own. “I’m out,” he murmurs, sounding as though all the breath has been stolen out of him. “M’gonna see Sammy.” 

 

Cas’ fingers twitch and Dean’s eyes roll back at the feel of it.

 

_Oh, God._

 

Cas is so fucking beautiful, so fucking dangerous. And he’s just about as needy and crazy as Dean so it works somehow between them. Prisoners, by definition, have no power, no real autonomy, but with a simple touch, a word hell probably a fucking look if Dean tried- Dean can do anything.

 

He’s out of prison and it’s thanks to Cas. Dean’s gonna be able to see his brother, _protect_ him, fuck up Mykal- and it’s all because of Cas.

 

Dean needs to have that gorgeous man’s hands on him like he needs fucking air. Needs the power trip it brings him.

 

Dean feels himself swell when Cas presses in close nosing at the side of his neck. From panther to pussy cat in a matter of minutes. He slides his hand out from under Dean’s and then slips his hand under the elastic waistband of Dean’s slacks, grabbing a fleshy handful of his thigh.

 

Dean’s gross and sweaty, tired and probably still a little drugged up, but what he wants more than anything in that moment is celebration in the form of spreading open and biting and fucking like nobody’s business.

 

“Cas,” Dean rolls up into Cas’ wandering hand, uncaring for where they are, why they're there. Just for a moment he needs this. “Need you.”

 

Cas’ other hand turns his head, and the Russian reaches up pulls Dean into a kiss and a second into it snags Dean’s lower lip with his teeth, just barely scraping before he kisses him.

“Dean,” Cas says but it’s not low enough to be a real warning, his thumb slides over Dean’s lower lip then up to cup his cheek.

 

Besides, he’s still touching Dean, still dragging the tips of his fingers over Dean’s foreskin, teasing him by pulling it back just the slightest bit, rubbing around Dean’s cock with small circles.

“I’m free cos of you,” Dean says. “And I wanna spend that freedom with your mouth on my cock.”

 

There’s a sound from across the room when Loki shifts his arms.

 

 _"U nas net vremeni dlya etogo_.” He says, and Dean catches onto the impatience of it. 

 

“ _Udelyayte vremya-”_  says Cas, as he tugs on Dean’s pants, motioning him to lift his hips, “-ten minutes,” he directs that last part of Loki.

 

“Five.” Dean cuts in, titling his head back. he sets his hand down on the table in order to arch his hip up. His hands slip on the blue plastic but Cas’ got him, and then Cas is leaning down in front of Dean, feeding his cock out of his pants.

 

“Seein ya all badass,” Dean elaborates, “makes me’kinda hot.” 

 

“Ten minutes.” Cas says, his voice is hard leaving no room for argument. He grips both of Dean’s thighs in a harsh grip and speaks loud enough that Loki can hear him. “I gave you your orders.” He says, already playing with Dean’s cock.

 

Everything in Dean starts to wind up like clockwork, Cas' voice when he's all- all  _Avtoritet- fuck._

 

“ _Da_ _Avtoritet.”_

 

The door opens and then closes and then they’re alone.

 

They don’t speak, Cas gets Dean fully out of his pants into his hand and then into his mouth. Dean’s toes curl and his fingers fail to find purchase on the blue plastic beneath him, he slips a little and Cas makes a sound- fuck Dean will never be tired of this.

 

He can feel Cas’ blue eyes on him, and though the sight of Cas bobbing on his cock would be a hell’va thing to witness, but Dean’s happy with losing himself in the purposeful touches to the inside of his thighs, his stomach, his sac.

 

Dean moans, he arches into the sensation of Cas’ mouth sliding over him. He fists the body bag and his grip only tightens when Cas lifts off of him.

 

“ _To, kak vy zvuk, yebat', kak vy vkus,_ ” Cas murmurs, licking at the crease of his thigh and crotch. “ _Tak zadykhalas_.” Dean cracks open one eye and sees Cas pupils blown, lips slick. Dean’s caught in the almost hypnotic image of Cas rubbing his thumb over purpling crown of Dean’s cock, forcing out a little pre-come.

 

“I will always give you what you need,” purrs Cas. “ _Vsegda_. But for now you have three minutes.”

 

With limited movement (incase he falls off the fucking table or gets all caught up in the body bag) all Dean can do is groan, long and loud when Cas gets back to sucking him.

 

“Fuck.” he pants, rolling into the silky, wet heat. “Fuck _Cas_. You’re good man,  _fuck-”_  Cas let’s go of Dean’s thigh and holds up two fingers. The fucker.

 

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, he want’s to come, needs to but he also doesn’t think he can come in two minutes. Fuck. He knows he’s being loud, he can hear himself being so, but he does not care. In this moment, this is all that there is.

 

One of Cas’ fingers folds down. The fingers on his other hand press up and under Dean’s balls, edging closer to his ass.

 

“Shit. _Cas_ \- I fuck, ah  _yes_ -”

 

A guttural noise forces it’s way out of him and he cocks his leg up, foot riding high on Cas’ shoulders. He comes down Cas’ throat with a loud groan. Maybe he’s a little more damaged from the whole pretending to be dead stint than he thought cos half of it hurts like a motherfucker but god it is good to be coming as a free man. Better probably, but maybe that’s just cos of Cas.

 

Dean’s sticky with fucked up drug sweat and post blowjob sweat, he feels raw and his limbs aren’t cooperating. He gives up on giving a fuck for a minute and groans as Cas slips out from between his legs, dropping Dean’s leg off his shoulder.

 

“Fuck man,” Dean manages, he eases back on his hands and the sound of plastic crinkling beneath him. “Blowjobs feel way better on the outside, I swear.”

 

Cas hums a low note. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and then sucks on each of his fingers while Dean fiddles with getting his soft cock back into his pants, the flesh over-sensitized from Castiel's expert mouth.

 

“You swallowed.” Dean sighs. He reaches his hands up above his head wipes them through his hair. “You might get pregnant.”

 

Cas casts him a look and something like a half smile, a quick flash of his gums slipping through. “You’re amusing.”  

 

Dean winks, then lowers his gaze down to the bulge in Cas’ pants. He raises both eyebrows. “Wanna hand there?” 

 

“You may have me later.” says Cas. He slaps the side of Dean’s thigh and rights himself, as though he didn’t just have a cock in his mouth and isn’t rocking one hell of a hard-on for all the world to see. See, and in Dean's mind, appreciate.

 

“Get up Dean. We have work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Worst Russian You Have Ever Read
> 
> Da - Yes
> 
> Avtoritet- Captain of the Russian Mafia
> 
> On milovidnyy - He's pretty 
> 
> Molodoy - Young
> 
> Eto kto-to , kto vdokhnovil vas , chtoby brosit' vyzov pravilo Mykal - This is the one who has inspired you to challenge the rule of Michael?
> 
> Lyuboye oskorbleniye k Dean takzhe oskorbleniye dlya menya- Any insult to Dean is also an insult to me.
> 
> Vse gotovo - Is everything ready?
> 
> On nenormal'nyy - Is he mad? 
> 
> “U nas net vremeni dlya etogo - We haven't got time for this
> 
> Udelyayte vremya - Make time
> 
> To, kak vy zvuk , yebat' , kak vy vkus - The way you sound, fuck, how you taste
> 
> Tak zadykhalas - so breathless
> 
> Vsegda- Always


	6. Bone White: Requested Timestamp

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Castiel's POV set between Chapters 2 and 3. Enjoy guys!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Updating this fic for Souff's birthday (I had your birthday marked down at the 12th gotta love Dyslexia eh?) so consider this part one of a two part pressie the second half of which will be posted...at some point.. *horrible friend* also with that half there will be porn, because everyone deserves porn for their birthday!

Castiel has never, in all of his life, thought of love. As a boy he barely noticed such a thing existed, scavenging on the streets, holing up in abandoned doorways and back streets to try and maintain just a sliver of humanity. His life had never been filled with folk tales, faerie stories, and his adolescence burgeoning on from such a start hadn’t the time for something so simple as sexual desire, attraction, or even really the emotional maturity to connect with another person in that manner. Such things were just not a part of Castiel’s world, on the streets and off. Even civilised, even _taught_ he never considered it a part of his own reality. The idea that anyone could detract him from his family, from his duty was not only a laughable thought but an unthinkable one.

 

When there’s nothing but silence, Castiel risks a glance at Dean's unconscious form. He sits on a chair pulled up toward Dean’s hospital bed, the box with Dean’s book and Alistair’s toe sits gently upon his lap. Dean, still handcuffed always and at once a prisoner, is sleeping the heavy sleep of the drugged and healing. His wound is bandaged up past his hips, cheeks flushed, his face pillowed and beaten, like a lovely vase that someone has smashed yet with only luck and skill could someone put back together.

Even the most ‘moral’ of guards have turned their backs at Castiel’s request, this current one no different than any other. Usually a small reminder of Castiel’s status in the _Bratva_ is enough to gain what he needs, or much in the case of lately- what he _wants_.

  
  
Mykal has made it so that Castiel's every whim can be answered with just the right amount of money or the right amount of force. Fortifying his old connections with the American judicial system establishing their stronghold further. And more so than ever, showing to the criminal element, the righteous glory of the Reznikov family.

Which is why everyone should know better than to touch what is Castiel’s.

 

The box in Castiel’s hands feels heavy. _We can’t choose our fate, but we can choose others._ His fingers curl over it, nail beds tender from how close to the quick he has bitten. Protecting Dean Winchester is his priority now, hardly the health of his cuticles, his own anxieties.

 

He looks down at the beautiful man in the bed beside him to calm himself, hearing him murmur in his sleep. 

  
Dean is so surprising in so many ways Castiel that can’t believe he actually exists. That this beautiful, savage man can also be soft, needy, willful. The entirety of Dean is captivating, Castiel has known it the first moment he saw him.

 

With Dean so close now, Castiel has to fight the urge to touch him. He tells himself it’s because Dean is injured and needs to be taken care of - but he knows Dean is hardly the kind of man to accept such care- at least to do so willingly. He takes the weight of the world on his shoulders, an Atlas of his generation. Slowly being beaten.

 

Perhaps that is what is so enthralling about him. Dean’s beauty- yes, enthralling, but he is not a creature to be cared for, to be doted on. He is broken, as is Castiel (in some fundamental, arguably psychological way), he is human, endlessly, hopelessly, creatively. Able to care almost perfectly for himself.

 

Although-

 

Castiel’s hands tear into the box when he thinks back to what caused them to be here, when Dean had truly needed watching over. The run in with the Alistair could have gone so much worse - Castiel has  _seen_ what can happen behind bars, what kind of weapons can be fashioned by the cowardly, what kinds of things children-playing-men can do in such enclosed spaces. Dean is lucky to still be breathing, suffering, yes but breathing.

At this point Castiel is sure that, if Dean’s chest fell still his own would cease in an almost identical manner. At the thought the pace of his heart picks up, he doesn't know how he can keep himself from touching Dean- checking the younger man for his heartbeat- if only to ease his own nerves...

 

What is stopping him?

 

Castiel’s body floods with a strange heat. Setting the box aside on the bed stand, he leans over the small infirmary cot and takes up Dean’s hand. Dean’s fingers are cool, soft in Castiel’s own. It feels strange to hold another’s hand, intimate. Addictive. The briefest thought enters Castiel's mind, questioning whether he is holding the action correctly. To put aside such insecurities Castiel kisses at Dean’s fingertips, eyes dark, set on Dean’s unconscious face with all sorts of greed shining bright inside him. His lips part in wonderment as Dean remains unconscious, completely unresponsive. Merely out of childish interest more than anything else, he takes the tip of one of Dean’s fingers between his teeth.

 

A sound from out in the hall has Castiel biting down lightly, then sliding Dean's finger out of his  mouth. Away from his lips, but he does not let go.

 

Hands free, Castiel strokes back Dean’s hair. With a glance to the door, he rests his forehead down against Dean’s neck. Oh, he is warm. Warm and still. Completely vulnerable.

 

There is a tight aching feeling in Castiel’s chest, reminiscent of a bullet wound (or several). As the minute’s wear on, Dean’s hand becomes supple under Castiel’s touches. He murmurs in his sleep, his muscles spasming a little. Castiel strokes him calm, running the heel of his hand over the back of Dean’s, tracing the lines in the palm of Dean’s palm. He circles his thumbs over bruised knuckles, down to Dean's wrists. Such beautiful wrists.

 

Castiel spends several minutes massaging Dean’s hands. He keeps his eyes on the man’s face for the most part, the sight of him enough to sate some deep part of him. Sliding his chair back, Castiel gently kneels upon Dean’s bed, careful not to jostle him as much as possible. He thought of slinging his leg over Dean’s hip, to straddle him not touch him, but instead he rests on the side of him, bowing over to kiss his neck.

 

 _I am pleased you are alive_ , Castiel wants to say, before he swallows back that horrific sentiment and instead settles beside him in silence. He just presses gentle fingers against Dean’s freckled skin, reassuring with every touch of his fingertips that the other man is still whole.

 

Castiel smiles into the kiss he presses to Dean’s jaw. “Rest beloved” he whispers and then, with affection, he licks at Dean’s skin unable to help himself. “Mmm-”

 

“H-holy fuck.”

 

Castiel glances across at the now awake Asian-boy, with a moue of distaste.

 

“Quiet,” his voice rumbles, low and deep. He returns to his licking and tasting.

 

The boy gawks at him. The painkillers have enlarged his pupils, his eyes are dark.

 

With displeasure etched in every line, Castiel turns to him, he raises an eyebrow.

 

The boy stares about the room blankly. Dazed, he seems to register his surroundings, jostles the arm of him that is cuffed to the bed, frowns. His eyes roll back to Castiel. “How-how did you-"

 

“Hush” says Castiel. _"Vy dolzhny otdokhnut'. Vashe litso trakhal.”_ He drops into the mother tongue that he uses so often to annoy the American’s around him. A puff of breath close to a sound escapes Dean’s lips, Castiel fixates on him- attention caught. He smooth’s his thumbs over the curve of Dean’s cheek, shushing him with a low sound.

 

The boy blinks, realising himself, Castiel and Dean all in one measure, and then, his beaten, bruised face pales considerably. “Oh fuck, oh fuck oh shit.”

 

“Alistair is dead.” Castiel informs him calmly. Eyes still on Dean. His lips swell red, eager looking, tender.

 

The boy in the bed continues to “lose his shit” as Dean would eloquently put it.

 

It is the truth, Alistair is dead, better than he should have gotten for what he tried to do. He should have watched as Castiel ripped and cut him and mutilated him, his friends, on and on at one with Castiel and a blade, never able to get away. His pain never to end. With the news of Dean’s injury a red mist had passed before Castiel’s eyes; causing him to go mad momentarily, for it was the only reason for what he did next.

 

He killed a man outside of his orders.

 

The ache in Castiel’s chest tightens, he nuzzles the side of Dean’s neck in search of comfort like a child.

 

“How are you here?” the Asian-boy asks. Voice almost as small as him.

 

A small genuine smile curls the corners of Castiel’s mouth; mere inches from Dean’s lips- were he awake, he would be able to feel Castiel’s breath ghosting over him when Castiel replies, “I’m an _Avtorityet_ in the _Bratva_."

 

Castiel wonders at the young boy’s naiveté at the total lack of response. Any criminal who’s any criminal knows of the _Bratva._ Perhaps it is the Russian that has stumped him. Castiel turns from Dean and clarifies; “Mob. But this is nothing of your concern.”

 

Fucking American’s.

 

“Shouldn’t that be a secret?” the boy asks.

  
  
Castiel tilts his head to the side. He sits up a little, hand still in Dean’s “Why?”

 

The kid looks like he’s contemplating something, so Castiel fills the silence; “I’m curious.” He says, rubbing his thumb back and forth, back and forth. “What kind of man would you describe yourself as?”

 

The Asian boy looks about to faint let alone unable to answer. Perhaps his discomfort is from his injuries, or perhaps Castiel’s presence. Castiel struggles to find it within him to care in either capacity.

 

 _He’s suffered for you._ Castiel wants to tell him, the English words alluding him. _Do you know how little your life is worth, in the sight of this man?_

 

He swallows, takes a moment. “If you want to survive, you must be willing to do whatever it takes. You must deal with your own fuckups.” The impression of his words seem to come across, if judging for the boys expression. “He will not be paying for you again.”

 

“I- I didn’t ask him- I-I’m sorry?”

 

There is a genuine sincerity, beneath the grogginess to the words. It's pleasing.

 

The phone in Castiel pocket vibrates. Castiel take it out and glances down just as Mykal's name flashes across the screen.

 

Castiel frowns pocketing the phone with a little more force than necessary. Time to move. He stands, kisses Dean once goodbye on the forehead, and once more gently on the hand. He straightens the box on the nightstand, aware of of the boys eyes upon him, turns and leaves without a word, escaping into the dark hospital hallway.

 

In the hallway a nurse catches him, she comes out from behind her desk her hushed whisper one for the stage, forceful, grating. “Excuse me,” she demands catching up to Castiel as he walks past. “You are not supposed to be here.”

 

“Apologies.” says Castiel without turning toward her, without slowing his pace. _“_ _Prosti menya_ _.”_ And with that he continues to stalk from the hospital, leaving the nurse staring after him in angered confusion.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> APALLING RUSSIAN: 
> 
> Vy dolzhny otdokhnut'. Vashe litso trakhal - You should rest. Your face is fucked.
> 
> Prosti menya - Forgive Me


	7. Imperial Grey (Gifted Timestamp)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to Angrysouffle who is always a pleasure and such a wonderful person, and to Blitzdrake who I forgot I promised some more Folsom to (So sorry hon!) and who is also Engaged!! EHHHH!!!
> 
> Sorry it's a little on the short (and angsty) side guys- also unedited my bad. But enjoy!

“ _Ona prosnulas',”_ says Gabriel as they approach the small ramshackle house, somewhere out of Lebanon but really it’s all just butt-fuck-no-where to Dean who hasn’t been told anything since Cas forced him onto a plane that morning with the promise of a plane bathroom bj and about three bottles of Jack. 

 

Dean has no idea why Gabriel’s there, standing beside a wilting flowerbed, leaning against a chipped-white painted beam lolly pop in his mouth and sunnies like something out of the Men in Black. He hasn’t seen the other Russian for nearing on three weeks since Cas busted him out of the joint. 

 

He hasn’t seen anyone really except for Sammy who’s pissed and confused and kinda not talking to Dean at the moment. 

 

Little brother’s huh? Can’t even be happy when their Big Brothers save their life. Ungrateful. 

 

“ _Govoril_?” asks Cas as they approach, his black trench coat kicking out around his heels. It’s a good look for him, a better look than prison scrubs if Dean has anything to say about it. Hell. Anything was better then those orange messes. 

 

After three years Dean almost cried getting back into some real clothes, allowed to feel like a goddamned _person_ again.  

 

Cas didn’t get it, but that hadn’t stopped him from buying Dean all the jeans, boots and plaid shirt’s he’d ever need- more then he’d every wear. Oh and the panties year, pretty much a different pair every day of the year- coupled with the last few weeks sleeping between Egyptian cotton sheets and pillows in some fucked up hotel Cas stashed him in it was enough to make a man feel like a goddamned _princess_. Not that Dean wanted to be a princess or anything- it was just nice y’know… getting spoiled, the whole ‘not jail’ thing. A little overwhelming if Dean is honest. 

 

Approaching the house by Castiel’s side, Dean is greeted by a wary look form Gabe, as though still he’s not to be trusted. The shorter _Bravata_ then nods to Cas who says nothing and leads the way up the porch steps. 

 

Dean throws the both of them a side-eye. “Dude,” he says sourly and is sufficiently ignored. It’s understandable if still not annoying as hell. But, Cas is in boss mode. All _Avtorityet,_ _with_ a firm jaw line that can cut glass, and a slightly raised brow that cut into a person at the slightest hint of questioning, Dean included. He’s working…well as close as a Russian criminal who’s trying to avenger his lover’s agenda and take over the top dog position can by systematically taking out the competition (Dean thinks).

 

  
“Maykl?” 

 

Another nod from Gabe. Dean, trying not to pout at being ignored, perks up- _Maykl_ he gets that name- understands it, the fucker. 

 

“Good,” says Cas, before switching back into Russian. “ _Mne nuzhno bol'she nichego ot neye_.”  

 

He pulls out ahead of Dean, bumping shoulder to shoulder with Gabriel- it’s almost comradely; the way the two of them walk together, shoulders brushing Russian spilling between them thick and low. Dean’d be jealous, if he was the type of man to get jealous (he isn’t) also if it wasn’t for the fact that just a scant few hours earlier he hadn’t been buried balls deep in the other man, tie gagging his mouth so he just had to lie there and listen as Cas ground tight fucking sinfully circles and arcs with his hips, working himself over Dean’s cock, whispering into his ear, hand on Dean’s throat all the while. So Dean just had to lie there and _take_ it.  _Perfect_ Cas had called him, _beloved_ , _mine_. It’s enough to settle Dean’s opinion on where he stands with the other man.

 

It’s something that he’s tried to explain to Sam. That Dean’s (and subsequently Sam and Sarah) are safe. Safe from Maykl, because after the joint nothing would have kept them safe.

 

_Except Cas._

 

Cas is there, stopping Maykl from hurting Sam again. Something Dean himself can’t do- not on his own.

 

For whatever reason, Cas saw something in Dean worth protecting. Worth keeping safe. When nobody else did. Nobody’s given a shit about Dean for awhile. Nobodies stepped in and offered Dean a smidgen of help. No-one cared.

 

Cas did. Cas  _destroys_  those who so much as look at Dean the wrong way. It’s overkill – in a very literal sense– but Cas is doing something for Dean and his family when not enough people ever did, ever since Dean was a kid.

 

Cas’ turning on his own family and making a new one for Dean, _with_ Dean.

 

And Dean’s grateful for it.

 

The house is even more shitty on the inside then it is out. Cas leads them to a dingy room down stairs, no larger then Dean’s prison cell at least (an observation that has Dean curling his fists into tight balls and digging them into his pockets). It’s lit by only a low hanging light ripped right out f crappy horror movie, the damn things even swinging as though it had been battered at by a cat’s paw.

 

It’s the smell that gets Dean, when Dean reaches the bottom of the stairs, realizes he’s in the basement and has just about enough sense to drop his hand from covering his nose as Gabriel drops back from Cas’ side to stand at the door. Guarding. He raises a pert brow at Dean as he passes, trying to breath through his mouth but it’s as though he can friggen taste the smell- blood, rot death. Jesus H Christ.

 

“Thanks for brining me to your sex dungeon Cas,” Dean says, hand over his nose. “’Fraid to say I’m probably a little bit more vanilla than this.”  


Cas doesn’t turn around but Dean just _knows_ the other man is smiling. “The smell will pass come a moment Dean.” He says, gruttal voice the only comfort in the dank, smelly space. “Ninety seconds for-for _sensory_ _adaption_.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes, but Cas is right. The smell becomes less abhorrent after a few moments.

 

There’s a figure strapped down in a chair bolted to the center of the floor with metal brackets. A woman.

 

She was wounds gouged into her exposed skin, welts and a smattering of bruises a canvas of pain that makes Dean want to look away. Her arms are tied behind her back, long brown hair falling about her face in sweaty clumps, she’s roped and bound to the chair, eyes on the floor as they enter.

 

Dean feels nauseous. There hasn’t been much in his life to prepare him for such a sight, despite what he’s seen and heard in prison, hell in the few months since he’s been with Cas, the actual glorious Technicolor of literal torture is pretty fucked up to him.

 

The whole incident with Jess, her rape and attempted recovery is a separate issue- though looking at the other woman now some of those same feelings threaten to swell up- but what happened to Jess doesn’t count. Dean killing those men doesn’t count for anything.

 

Cas walks briskly to the chair, soles of his boots making slapping sounds through puddles of blood and piss. He stops before the woman, blocking her from Dean’s view until he moves closer, and nudges her bare and bloody foot with his own.  

 

“Naomi.” He says, it comes out ‘No-ay-mi’. “ _Posmotri na menya._ Sister _.”_

 

The woman barely moves. Dean thinks she’s already dead.

 

Cas’ jaw clicks, an audible sound. He crouches low and grabs the woman’s face. A part of Dean almost reacts to stop him, but this is Cas- and something is going on, he doesn’t know everything yet.

 

“ _Vy budete pokazyvat'_ _moya lyubov' uvazheniye,”_ says Cas, tone dark. “You owe him this much.”  
  
  


Him- Dean? Dean stands still, unobtrusive behind Cas’ shoulder. The woman is alive, it turns out- she sucks in a breath as Cas’ fingers curl around her bruised jaw. She lids flutter but do not open.

 

_"Vzglyani na nego!”_

 

The Brunette- Naomi, lifts her chin from Cas’ grip, opens her eyes. Blue.

 

“I’ve had better,” she says looking right at Dean then spits in his direction, saliva dribbling down her chin, landing with a soft _splat_ near Cas’ feet.

 

Her accent is a lot finer then Cas’ less gruttal. If Dean had heard her just out on the street just saying a sentence or two he wouldn’t have doubted at all that she hadn’t spent her entire (what looked to be mid twenties) years of life put in America.

 

Her spit on the ground is bloody. Her smile a black and red, bruised and chipped mess- her eyes on Dean are _so_ like Cas’ own.  Cas’ hand whips out like a gunshot, slapping her straight across the face sending her reeling. If the chair she was in wasn’t bolted to the ground, she’d have been knocked flat on her back. The sound of Cas’ slap ricochets through the small room. Naomi throws her head back and laughs.

 

Clearly Dean is missing something important here. “Who is she, Cas?”

 

Castiel doesn’t take his eyes off Naomi. “She is one of Maykl’s ilk. One of the people he sent out after your brother. She feeds information back to him, is the reason Sam has been in medical care.”

 

_Holy shit._

_B_ uried beneath the revulsion, dizzying relief surfaces, bubbling up, but also anger.

 

She deserves this. That makes it okay, that makes Cas righteous. She tried to kill Sam.

 

“Are you going to kill her?” Dean asks, staring Naomi down, the woman who sent his brother to hospital, who went after his family.

 

“Yes.” Naomi answers before Cas can. Her eyes, glazed slightly as though drunk, slide over to Castiel, she smiles.

 

“I’ve told Gabriel all that I know of our Maykl, I don’t suspect you’ll keep me alive for much longer.”

 

“No.” Cas confirms, stone-faced. “I won’t.”

 

_It’s a little bit hot._ Dean thinks.

 

_So not the time._

 

God he’s fucked up.

 

Naomi swallows, after a moment she speaks.  “He’ll come for me, come for my body.”

 

Cas ignores her, he moves somewhere off to the corner of the room, Dean would watch but his eyes are on Naomi, she doesn’t look at him, her attention on Cas.  When there’s the distinct sound of shifting metal, of Cas picking between several something’s, she tenses and her lids lower.

 

“Maykl doesn’t betray his family.” She says, obviously not to Dean.

 

Cas doesn’t pause when he answers, “He made an attempt on Dean’s brother-”

 

Dean feels like a third wheel to some sort of awful car crash, Naomi’s eyes slide to him full of hate and derision. “ _Dean’s_ brother is not family. Not _krov'_.” Cas says nothing, returns into the minimal light, fine bladed knife in hand.  “Brother. You don’t have to do this.” There’s nothing in Naomi’s voice that makes Cas pause, but Dean- watching, he takes a step forward. He’s not gonna make Cas kill his own sister, whether that’s a mafia term or what Dean doesn’t really know, but still- what kinda fucked up boyfriend would that make him?

 

Cas stops, looks at Dean, who holds out his hand palm up and somehow manages to grate out, “gimme the knife.”

 

Cas stares at him, his grip on the blade tightening.

 

“Baby,” says Dean curling his fingers over Cas’. “Let me do this for you.” Something in Cas’ face twitches, Dean corrects himself, “For us.”

 

There’s nothing in Cas’ face that changes, nothing in his ice-blue gaze, but in the next moment the knife with an ornate handle is slapped into Dean’s palm. Naomi speaks up at that. 

 

“Castiel, you don’t have the allegiance- the backing of the rest of the _Avtorityet, Gabriel is just one man-”_ she says, but it’s mostly drowned out by Cas leaning in and catching Dean’s lips with his own, hand still on the knife, his other hand cradling Dean’s face. The kiss is quick but wet and warm, Dean relaxes into it. Eventually Cas steps away.

 

Dean runs the pad of one thumb over the design carved into the wood of the blade.

 

He’s never used a knife to kill someone, doesn’t know the best way to do it.

 

His killings of Brady and his thugs for hurting Jess, they’d been quick couple gun shots barely a thought- but this is calculated.

 

It’s murder in cold blood.

 

Dean walks until he’s standing behind Naomi, she doesn’t thrash doesn’t even acknowledge him, just stares Cas down who’s looking at Dean as though raptured by the very sight before him.

 

Okay so-

 

Dean grabs a fistful of Naomi’s hair, yanking back her head. She hisses when the line of her throat is exposed, the dip of her collarbone, smeared with blood and sweat.

 

Dean’s hand isn’t shaking it isn’t. He holds the blade against Naomi’s skin just on the pulse point. Her chest is rising and falling in ragged pulses and whilst she’s clearly a bitch, she’s not Maykl, or Brady or fuck even Alistar. With Brady, the driving force was pure hatred, it made killing him easy. Here, Dean’s – relatively – sound of mind…

 

The words however brief dance on the tip of his tongue

 

_I can’t-_

 

Fuck.

 

Weak.

  
_But Cas-_

 

_Sammy_.

 

Dean slows his breath, a long drawn out pull.

 

Naomi takes a strike. Her lips curl. “Your brother won’t ever be safe. Not now. And you-” she can’t look at Cas cos Dean’s holding her hair, blade to her throat, but it’s clear she’s talking to him. “You’ll watch your slut burn along with your failed attempt of rebellion.”

 

Cas makes to walk forward, but Dean catches his eye. Cas looks like an avenging angel, more so then Dean has ever seen him; burning with righteous fury at Naomi’s words, her smile, totally focused and lethal.

 

Naomi snarls as Dean jerks her head back further, forcing her eyes off Cas, he presses the blade over the cut that’s started to emerge along her throat.

 

“Seeya bitch.” Dean says.

 

And with that, he sweeps the blade across her throat in a controlled brutal arc; seamless. Dean finds himself unable to look away from Cas while he does it looking at him watching in macabre fascination, the centre of Dean’s universe, eyes alive and shining.

 

As Naomi bleeds out between them a spluttering mass of painful gurgling sounds and last-minute twitches, Dean steps back his hands trembling. Lets out a breath.

 

Naomi falls silent, her lifeless body slumps in the chair. Cas stands before Dean then, a hand touching his arm, rubbing him gently through plaid and leather.

 

“I won’t let anything happen to you. Or Sam.” He says, as sincere and intense as ever.

 

Dean swallows, dry throat tickling. “Yeah, I know Cas.” Then, quietly, he adds- because it’s way long overdue, “Thanks.”

 

Castiel takes Dean by the hand, his fingers curl over the blade handle, prying it from Dean’s hold. Dean doesn’t look up, doesn’t really need to- he can tell by the air around them that Castiel is smiling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **The Most Disgusting Attempt at Russian You Have Ever Seen**
> 
> Ona prosnulas'– she’s awake.
> 
> Govoril – spoke (talked)
> 
> Mne nuzhno bol'she nichego ot neye. – I need nothing more from her. 
> 
> Posmotri na menya – look at me
> 
> krov - Blood
> 
> vy budete pokazyvat' moya lyubov' uvazheniye – you will show my love respect.
> 
> Vzglyani na nego! – look at him!


	8. Tyrian Purple

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy 2017 everyone! 
> 
> As always unbeated. unedited. unread :3

Dean can totally do this.

Flirting, charming, it’s practically his second nature. He’d grown up having to sweet talk his way around to scoring extra food for Sammy, getting all sorts of pool chumps to lay down extra cash. Point is, Dean’s fucken charming, he can do the whole wine and dine and fancy thing- he thinks. He hopes.

Dean shifts inside his suit (which though it fits perfect feels off on his skin) trying his best not to let his nerves show. He hasn’t worn a suit in… hell, he didn’t even wear suits when he was still an average-non-murdering-Joe, never even seen anything this fancy outside of the flicks and red carpet on TV.

Three years wearing a jumpsuit too seems to have done something to Dean’s skin, making it all sensitive and itchy beneath.

The whole thing’s strange. New.

It’s _dinner_.

The restaurants the kind of opulence you’d expect crime big bads like Cas to hang out at- guys who have so much money they literally have nothing better to do than by expensive shit, and food the size of quarters. Hell, Dean should’ve expected Cas to be rolling in it, from all the stuff he can afford, from all the stuff he can do.

He’d faked Dean’s death, got him a new identity, sequestered Sam and Sarah somewhere safe and flew them right out to Chicago to the morgue after all.

Still, Dean’s unsure what’s expected of him.

And he feels small, ridiculously small, in sight of all these people, standing here pressed in a suit as the maître d' stares him down, refusing to let him through to the dining area.

“Mr Crowley wasn’t—”

A hand touches Dean’s shoulder and then, thank god, Cas is there, back from out front where he’d taken a call in brisk, brutal Russian. “Dimitri Reznikov,” he says, barely looking at the maître d' as he squeezes Dean’s shoulder. “And one.”

The effect that Cas has on the guy shouldn’t really be as great as it feels. The maître d' backtracks, eyes wide, on where Dean and Cas are touching just past Cas’ shoulder because fuck, the guys not about to look Cas in the eye or anything.

That’d be suicide.

“Of course,” Mr snooty lowers his gaze, gestures out with one arm to lead them through the room. “We have you seated out on the patio Mr Reznikov.”  
  
Dean’s eyes widen and he glances over at Cas, taking Cas’ hand when it’s offered to him as they are lead through the dinning floor. “Dimitri?” he asks voice only just above a whisper.  
  
“I have a lot of names _pchelka_ ,” Cas murmurs. He tucks his nose close to Dean’s temple and kisses him gently, arm sneaking around his waist. “You’re nervous.”

Dean shoots a quick glance around him. Everyone’s eating and chatting, barely paying him attention. “Kinda just out of prison,” he says, “kinda afraid someone’s gonna recognise me…”  
  
“Even if they do,” Cas answers, following Dean’s gaze around the room with steely blue eyes. “Oni ne budut zhit' dostatochno dolgo, chtoby govorit'” Fuck. There’s just something about Cas’ whispering in a Russian baritone that sets something off in Dean’s gut and makes his damn slacks tight.  
  
It’s too obvious for an adjustment, so Dean just hopes the tight, black slacks, do a good of enough job of hiding his half a chub. He works on the main issue at hand. “What’s the point in changing your first name if you’re just gonna keep your last?” Cas smiles something that is at once amused and threatening. “Now, there are many Reznikov’s.” 

Dean huffs a laugh into his hand as the maître d' leads them outside onto the patio.

The table itself is small and intimate, only room for about four people if they squeezed all together. There’s already one guy at the table, a portly guy in a dark black suit and red tie. He’s already sitting up straight before they make it to the table, and he smirks, dark eyes skimming over Dean as they pull out their chairs and sit opposite.

“Dimitri, you brought a friend.” His voice is foreign, British or Scottish if Dean were to guess. He talks like he's been smoking cigars and swallowing whiskey since he was a tot. He looks Dean over like he’s something delicious to eat. “Hello Darling.”

Dean bristles, puffs us his chest and stands beside the seat Cas pulled out for him. “I—”

“ _Sidet'_.” Cas says and it’s an order Dean understands.

He sits.

There’s a waiter who scurries over, distributing wine glasses, plates and two menus forgoing Dean.  

Crowley steeples his fingers, and smiles. “Well trained.” he says, nodding. Then, with a raised eyebrow, looks at Cas and says. "The Ivanov accounts have just been transferred this morning, but I assume you already knew—”  
  
“Shut up Crowley,” says Cas, calm and smooth as anything, as though a parent scolding a child. Wordless, he nudges a menu towards Dean just as another server approaches the table, never looking at Cas for too long, but taking both Dean and Crowley in at turn, Dean with significantly more confusion. “Wine sirs?” she asks.  
  
Cas never even picked up his menu. “Krasnyy, pozhaluysta.” Crowley glances at Cas from his menu, looks at the waitress and nods. Her expectant eyes are on Dean, he nods as well, aware of both Cas and Crowley glancing at him and giving him very different types of smiles. The waitress nods and takes their menus, scurrying back into the restaurant. Another fills her place, like they’re soldiering ants, his tray is stacked with three plates and Dean mourns just looking at them. 

He'd suspected that this place would be one of those places, with the tiny meals and the food that’s all spread out all over the plate as though it’s meant to be artistic or some shit. It doesn’t smell like anything particularly yummy- then again; such a small salad probably isn’t meant to smell great- it’s supposed to ‘wet the appetite’ or some shit.  
  
Crowley’s eyes crawl over Dean’s skin, as though an actual, curdling weight. He slides over to Cas, blinks then smiles serenely- all business and charm. “So—we’re here to talk about Maykl.”

Cas picks up his fork, a dainty thing in his calloused, thick hands. “Eat. First,” he says as Dean picks at his own salad- what is that a grape? “We’ll talk later.” Crowley inclines his head graciously, smirks at Dean, then eats his own salad. 

After what feels like forever, when after three courses, the dessert is cleared away, Cas finally sets his wineglass down with something almost like a sigh. The air feels like it’s been supercharged. Dean gets tense, the steak (yep steak, it was great, totally worth the trip, bless Jesus) rolling heavy in his stomach.

 Crowley’s fork and knife are already crossed over his plate; Dean keeps his own knife down in his lap.

“You know,” Crowley begins, and for a second, it almost comes off as friendly. “I don’t have unlimited spare time.” 

And then it doesn’t. 

"You know my ties to your brother."

“Dean?” Cas asks and Dean tears his eyes off Crowley’s throat, loosens his hold on his knife.  Cas is offering the table wine to him, red. Dean nods, short and sharp he could do with a hundred glasses of wine right about now, better than the prison shit anyway- as good as that had tasted at the time.

He downs his refill in two swallows, which makes Castiel chuckle. 

Across the table Crowley is smiling. “Dean.” He spins the last of the wine in his glass. “See, Dimitri, was that so hard?”

Cas hums. “You weren’t much interested in his name when you wanted to fuck him,” he says mildly. If Dean was still drinking he’d spit it out, as it is the red’s gone to his head, and he smiles serenely cos Cas saying fuck in that voice of his is...ummpf. Killer. “There’s no point in you knowing when this is the first and last time he will ever see you.”

Cut that, threats are even hotter.

And the answering look on Crowley’s face, the way he shifts in his seat and then winces—that there, totally the cost of admission.

“I see. Well—you understand why I may have a problem with that." Crowley says with an easy smile, apparently uncaring for the way Cas is looking at him. "I’m sure Maykl will be interested to know just how Samuel Winchester is going in—Baptist Medial Center right? Jacksonville? Not to mention this pretty piece of ass you’ve got here still alive—"

Dean jerks, just a little as Cas sets his pistol on the table before him and slides it pointedly over to Dean. "The kill is yours, if you want it," Cas says. His eyes aren’t even on Crowley, they’re on Dean- assessing, sharp. Crowley gets up out of his seat. Dean barely notices.

He swallows, then shakes his head. “He’s not Maykl,” it’s a weak protest at best. He can’t look away from Cas’s eyes.

Crowley doesn’t get the chance to run, to make a quip, Cas picks up his gun and unloads a clip into his face. Dean averts his eyes only at the last moment, Crowley makes a sick- wet, _thump_ when he falls back against the table, sliding over the table cloth, off the chair, onto the floor.

And the patrons around them, they keep eating. Not oblivious just, not caring. Dean stares at the spilt wine on the table cloth, at Crowley’s bloody forehead gunk, mixing into the stain.

The sight doesn’t repulse as it should. The sight of Cas, killing in cold blood, does anything but.

Castiel stands, cocks his head to one side, and lets the gun rest again on the table with a dispassionate sigh. “Clean up the mess,” he says seemingly to anyone, the nearest few servers scurry inside, dropping what they’re doing who they’re serving. No one makes an attempt to complain. As soon as they’re set to the task Cas is sitting back down, his attention turned back to Dean.

"I need to know that-" Castiel says, his hands slid down to his thighs, rub over them, then extend out to Dean. "I need to know..." He took a step closer, crouched down on his knees taking Dean’s hands in his own. Calloused, killer’s hands, his thumbs circled the bony knobs of Dean’s wrists. Dean bit his lip and leaned into the touch. "That your…loyalties haven't been stopped… _damaged_ by what you've seen." 

Dean snorts a laugh. It wasn't like he could do anything about it anyway—Cas is kinda it. Just it. Hell, he’d killed three guys and got himself in jail for it, he’s seen Cas torture and kill and enjoyed it—a little bullet to the brain in the middle of dinner is hardly enough to sway him.

The guy was a dick.

“Maykl’s next,” Dean says instead of anything else, he squeezes Cas’ feet and brings him up off his knees, almost into his lap. Despite the affection (and arousal) lingering there Dean speaks with severity. “None of this dicking around. I want him gone, and I wanna be the one to put a bullet in that fucker’s brain.”

A slow, dimpled smile spreads across Cas’ face, he leans hard against the dining table—no one bats an eye. He cups Dean face in gentle hands, all light eyes and love and smelling a little like wine.

“For you," he murmurs, brushing his thumb softly under Dean’s eye, his smile gummy. "Yes, I will. I will do this for you."

Dean leans down and kisses him on the cheek.

Castiel sucks in a deep breath and for a moment his eyes look blown. As though heat’s been shot through him at Dean’s show of devotion, as if with just a kiss he’s validated in whatever complicated way that they validate and love each other. Seeing Cas like that, effects Dean in a way he was not prepared for.

"And they haven't," Dean adds finally, lifting his gaze to Cas’ earnest, steel-edged face. "Me and you. I’m loyal. Not goin' anywhere. You’ll have to shoot me to get rid of me."

Cas laughs and smiles, and Dean feels _good_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Say hello to my shitty Russian!!**
> 
>  
> 
> Pchelka— Little bee
> 
> Oni ne budut zhit' dostatochno dolgo, chtoby govorit'— They will not live long enough to talk
> 
> Krasnyy, pozhaluysta— Red please.


End file.
